Eyes of a Child
by surreptitiouspen
Summary: Five years after the end of the war with Voldemort, Harry Potter moves in one story above an embittered and spurned old schoolmate. Through their interactions, they learn that forgiveness comes in more forms than one.
1. Win Some, Loose Some

All characters, places, and things from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. No infringement is implied.

Five years after the end of the war with Voldemort, Harry Potter moves in one story above an embittered and spurned old schoolmate. Through their interactions, they learn that forgiveness comes in more forms than one.

Edited Version Posted: 8/03/07

**Eyes of a Child  
Chapter One: Win Some, Loose Some**

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There is a small, unobtrusive shop in downtown Diagon Alley called Markeley's Magical Maintenance. This shop has seen a large surge in business in the last few years following the climactic end of the terrible war. All manner of wizards were calling on the expertise of the man who was named in the shop's over-the-door sign, needing their magical objects fixed. Much had been during the terrible hostilities preceding You-Know-Who's death, and now, while scars were forming and memories becoming nothing more than dark dreams, everyone wanted their possessions repaired.

Dominic Markeley was a man blessed by copious amounts of common sense, and had been expecting such a result once the war had ended. He was good with his hands, unlike many wizards who relied too heavily on their wands. Dominic found that fixing things came easily to him, if he put his mind to it, and the profit he turned was enough to rent a satisfactory Muggle-owned flat twelve blocks down from the Leaky Cauldron.

He worked enough to tire himself out each night, and his exhaustion drove away the nightmares that had come to haunt him during You-Know-Who's reign. He was short-tempered with his assistant and anyone else who dared utter more than four sentences to him; he preferred the quiet. He was slender, shorter than the average wizard, and despite the occasion or place, he always dressed with good taste. Dominic had no friends of which to speak, nor did he make any effort to make any. He declined every offer from would-be admirers who had appreciated his fair hair, fit physique, and his slate-colored eyes. He kept to himself; he was happier that way.

So, when a knock came on his door one Tuesday night, Dominic didn't immediately jump up and rush to the door. _If only the Cruciatus Curse was legal_, he thought sourly. With a long-suffering sigh, he set his coffee mug down on a coaster, and placed his bookmark where he had been reading before the interruption. He moved to the door and looked out the spy hole for his visitor.

No one was there.

Dominic grumbled a little to himself, cursing the Muggle children down the hall for playing Ding-Dong-Ditch so late in the evening. However, he had only gotten as far as his arm chair when the muffled knock came again. Swearing, Dominic sprinted to the door and yanked it open, intent on catching the brats in their little game and giving them the scare of their lives.

"Hi."

Dominic stared down in surprise at the little strawberry-blonde boy standing at his door. He couldn't be older than two, and was shifting shyly from one foot to the other. The picture of innocence, the boy wore an oversized blue jumper and scuffed-up sneakers. There was a smattering of freckles that dotted the bridge of his nose, but the most distinctive feature about the boy was his wide green eyes, which were currently studying Dominic curiously.

"You don't live here."

"Pardon me?" Dominic knelt to be level with the boy, who was still watching him intently. Dominic lifted one eyebrow and the toddler ducked his chin, not seeming to want to meet Dominic's eyes.

"My daddy lives here." The kid popped his thumb into his mouth after this declaration, and continued to speak around the digit. "Daddy said t'remember fwird fwoor, second door t'the wight."

Dominic took a moment to translate. "You said third floor, second door to the right? This is the second floor."

It took the boy a moment of two to process the information, but when he had, his eyes widened in horror and began to fill with tears. Dominic bit back another swearword at the sight, and hastily tried to placate him. "Shh, it's okay, I'll take you up there. It's fine." When the sniffles didn't stop, Dominic sighed. _So much for finishing my book tonight_. "What's your name?"

The toddler seemed too distressed to answer, hiccoughing a little as his tears continued to pour down his plump little cheeks. Dominic rubbed at his face with the palm of one hand. _Fan-fucking-tastic. When will Muggles learn to tether their children…? Put on a collar on the brats, at the very least... _He ran his fingers through his hair, surveying the child in front of him with thinly-veiled distaste. _Snotty little beast, liquid pouring from every nasty little orifice…_ He looked vainly up and down the hallway, as if by willpower alone he could summon the boy's parents to come and rid him of the responsibility of taking care of the weeping toddler. When no one came, Dominic reluctantly addressed the boy again. "Okay, I'll take you up.

He stood up and pulled his apartment door shut behind him. Dominic hadn't taken two steps toward the lift when the toddler hastily grabbed his hand. Dominic groaned inwardly after realizing that he held the hand whose thumb had recently been inside the boy's mouth.

The little boy remained mute the entire elevator ride, and once the doors slid open he dropped Dominic's hand and ran to the second door on the right-hand side of the dimly lit hallway. No sooner had the boy rapped his tiny knuckles against the wood did the door snap open, to Dominic's abject horror and shock, to reveal none other than Harry Potter.

A very frantic-looking Harry Potter, Dominic noted. His hair, though usually untamable-looking in all of the Prophet pictures, stood on end as if he had run his fingers through it in agitation. Upon seeing the boy standing at the door, Harry dropped to his knees and pulled him into a bear hug.

"Dhugal Albus Potter, if you _ever_ wander off again I swear I'll…!" He didn't finish, opting instead to squeeze the boy tighter still. Finally he looked up at Dominic, who had been edging away toward the lift. The words of gratitude died on Harry's lips, his eyes going wide in recognition, and Dominic's heart sank in his chest.

"Malfoy…?"

_Fuck me, what luck._ He managed a wan, tight smile. "Hello, Potter."

Potter was looking at Draco with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, his arms still wrapped around his son. "Well, er, thanks for bringing Dhugal back."

Draco nodded shortly, and made as if to turn back toward the lift. Harry's voice stopped him. "D'you want to step inside for tea?"

_Do you want to stick your hand inside a dragon's arse?_ Draco forced his face into a semblance of a smile. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

The child had finally stopped blubbering and was staring at Draco in a reproachful manner, pushing himself free of his father's protective arms. _Dhugal, was it?_ Draco's lip twitched in amusement at the thought of the odd name. _Ten Galleons says Potter was drunk when he agreed to that name. Either that or his taste in baby names is as repulsive as his taste in clothing._ The toddler waddled toward Draco and seized his hand again, now less shy in the presence of his father.

"I wanna show you my broomsticks." His voice was still soft, almost timid.

Draco stared down at Dhugal, who was tugging resolutely at his fingers, and suppressed another sigh. _Oh, fuck. _There was no non-violent escape from the situation that Draco could see, and he allowed himself to be tugged inside.

Never in his wildest dreams (or in his darkest nightmares) had Draco Malfoy imagined that he would end up sitting in complete unease in Harry Potter's living room, with Harry Potter's son sitting on the floor in front of him, showing Draco every single piece in his toy race car and miniature Quidditch broom collection. Potter himself had gone to put a kettle on, temporarily leaving Draco to the mercy of his son.

He let his eyes wander around the small room. It was the same layout as his apartment one floor below, but Potter's belongings were strewn around the apartment in a manner completely foreign to Draco's neat, tidy space. There was little artwork hanging on the walls, aside from a moving photograph of what Draco assumed to be Potter's parents and a messy crayon drawing undoubtedly done by Dhugal. By the radiator in the corner, Draco noticed, was a map of Ireland. One small, glowing red pin had been pushed through the paper on the western shore of the island, and below the map there was a Muggle photograph that Draco couldn't quite make out; he was certain it was a red-headed woman standing by an immense stretch of ocean.

A clattering noise issued from the kitchen, bringing Draco back to the problem at hand. He had no idea what he would say to the famous Boy-Who-Lived; he had spent the last few years avoiding all thoughts about all of his old classmates. _Yes, I've been running a repair shop under an alias, and no, I don't know who's ahead in the Quidditch World League._ Draco thought sourly. And hadn't he read, before he had stopped getting the Daily Prophet, that Potter had been accepted as an Auror? Maybe the Ministry had decided to reopen his case, thinking that his proclaimed neutrality had just been a cover for his real allegiance to the Dark Lord. Perhaps Potter was going to tie him to a chair and cut off his fingertips for information. As Dhugal held up a toy-sized Momentum 4500 broomstick for his inspection, Draco dismissed the thought of coercion and torture immediately. Potter _was_ a Gryffindor; causing another man immense pain in front of a child was certainly not routine behavior for the honorable kiss-ups.

Not to mention the testimony Potter had given at Draco's trial. Draco's insides churned a little in shame; he tried not to think about what had happened on that particular day. It had only been Potter's word of his innocence in Albus Dumbledore's actual murder that had kept him out of Azkaban. He supposed he ought to feel grateful, but hearing his biggest rival's rendition of the events that had transpired on the top of the Astronomy Tower that night (with extra emphasis on Draco's terrified confession about the Dark Lord's coercion) wasn't something Draco was likely to ever forget, no matter how hard he tried.

"Berry & Rudd's or peppermint?"

Draco looked up, startled out of his preoccupied silence. "Er… peppermint, please."

Potter nodded and retreated into the kitchen. Draco sat back, watching Dhugal as the boy made a hot rod and a Firebolt race around a wooden coffee table. What surprised Draco the most about seeing Potter out of the blue was that he had chosen to live _here_, in a Muggle apartment. Indeed, the savior of the known world had never had exquisite taste (Draco couldn't help but smirk a little at the memories of Potter dressed in clothes sized for an elephant) but this certainly wasn't a choice destination for people with money. Draco himself only lived here because his father's assets had been seized by the Ministry the moment his parents had been convicted. Even the trust fund his father had prepared for him hadn't survived the Ministry's purge; even though the Ministry had excused their actions under the label of 'tax reasons,' Draco knew he was just being punished for the deeds associated with the Malfoy name.

Another puzzling thing about Potter's choice of living conditions was the lack of other wizards. Draco knew that the rest of the building was inhabited by Muggles, which had been a deciding factor in his choice to make it his home. He couldn't imagine why Potter of all people would want to live isolated from the Wizarding World. Last week, when Draco had heard that a new tenant was moving in, he hadn't even bothered to check if the person was magical or not; he had assumed that it was another Muggle.

Potter came back into the living room directing the three cups and saucers he was levitating with his wand. He sent two floating to the coffee table with a casual flick of his hand, (Draco winced a little for the wood; not a coaster in sight) and Dhugal plucked the third cup, full of plain chocolate milk, from the air.

"Cheers," Potter raised the cup in Draco's direction before taking a sip. "Thank you again for returning my son."

Dhugal giggled a little into his chocolate milk, and Potter sent him a warning glance that immediately silenced the boy. Instead, he started to gulp his milk until the final drops were gone. Picking up his toys, Dhugal waddled from the room unceremoniously.

"He's… cute." Draco offered, unnerved a little by the silence that fell into the pre-made gap between the two of them. Potter, though he usually had nothing interesting to say, was quite verbose in Draco's memory.

"Yes. Don't think he doesn't know it," Potter sighed. He took another sip. "He's not three years old and he's already a magnet for women. I shudder to think how I'll handle him as a teen."

Another awkward silence followed, broken only by the gentle ceramic _chinks_ of cups hitting saucers. Then, with the same blunt manner that Draco remembered, Potter spoke. "Everyone thinks you're dead."

Ah. They had arrived to _that_ conversation.

"You must have known that."

Potter was bright as ever, too. Draco suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Of course."

"How have you been able to stay under the Ministry's radar?" The inflection in Potter's voice seemed to imply _How have you been able to stay under _my_ radar?_

"Why, have you been looking for me?" Draco knew that Potter had understood that his pronoun use had been directed solely at him and not as a blanket term for the entire Ministry.

"Actually, _I_ have," Potter took another sip of tea. "I was assigned to your case."

Surprise, surprise. Boy Who Lived looking for Boy Who Betrayed. How very poetic.

Draco took a dainty sip from his cup, wishing that his host would have remembered to ask if he wanted sugar or not. "You do fantastic work." Draco smirked again; at this comment Potter had frowned, visibly biting his lip to keep from retorting. Draco had almost forgotten how much fun it was to bait the Gryffindor. Potter spoke once he had regained composure. "We looked for you for months before I was reassigned. You just vanished off the face of the earth, and Greg thought that meant-"

"Greg? As in Gregory Goyle?"

Potter nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Hm." Draco set his cup back on the saucer, sitting back a little. He had always known that Goyle wasn't as slow as he pretended to be; that had become blatantly apparent when he had been honored as a successful spy for the Order of the Phoenix after the war. Draco knew, along with every Slytherin, the importance of self-preservation; Goyle had perfected the act of stupid side-kick to protect himself, and Draco had never questioned that act. However, it was still strange to hear that his old friend was working with Harry Potter and the Ministry to find him. Draco wasn't a fool; he knew that by declaring himself neutral he had made himself an enemy to both sides, but he still was disheartened to think that Goyle was trying to keep tabs on him. "Go on."

"Well, there's not much to it after that. We were looking for you more for your own protection… Greg said that you usually confided even your most secret plans to someone, but since no one knew where you were we assumed you were…" Potter broke off again, looking even more uncomfortable.

"Systematically murdered by the families of my father's victims?" Draco said conversationally. He took another sip of tea, more for an excuse not to look at the man sitting across from him than an actual thirst for the stuff.

"Basically." Potter's voice took on a professional edge. "But here you are." Potter's eyes were on him, burning with curiosity. Ah, another trait Draco remembered. Meddlesome to a fault.

"Here I am," Draco repeated slowly. Another sip, another pause. "I looked through the names of the other tenants when I was considering moving here," Potter said. "You weren't listed, obviously…"

"I'm Dominic Markeley, now, to most. I used to have an uncle named Dominic," Draco said lightly. "He taught me how to fence when I was younger. And there's no reason for Markeley other than it was the first name in the list of 'M' surnames at the library." He stood up, setting his tea on the coffee table. "Thank you for the tea. Give my regards to your wife when she returns."

Draco had assumed that the presence of a child meant the presence of a mother. What he hadn't been expecting was Potter to set down his tea cup, face expressionless, and say "No need… it's just me and Dhugal."

Draco had thought that there would be little to 'catch up' about when Potter had invited him in, but as he left, he found that he was actually burning with questions. He retreated to his own apartment and went straight to bed, but couldn't sleep. Instead, he found himself lying awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if Potter was laying just one floor above him, thinking about Draco.

**End Chapter**

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Hi all. Hope you enjoyed the first installment of my fic! Let me know how you felt about it, via the little blue button at the bottom of the page. 

Many thanks, and cheers,  
Pen


	2. Common Misconceptions

All characters, places, and things from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. No infringement is implied.

**Edit: 9/20/07**

**Eyes of a Child  
Chapter Two: Common Misconceptions**

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"Mr. Markeley?" A tow-headed young man poked his face around the door leading to Draco's workroom, looking slightly hassled. "Another customer wants to know how long to expect for repair on a model of the solar system."

Draco looked up at his assistant. "Tell them five days, Benson. I'm bogged down with these damn Time-Turners."

Benson nodded and disappeared behind the door again, leaving Draco to the tedium of repairing yet another Time-Turner. The Ministry of Magic finally decided to fix their supply that had been ruined the night the Department of Mysteries had been broken into, and Draco had accepted the commission when they approached him for the job. Benson kept reminding him that it was an honor that the Ministry selected Markeley's Magical Maintenance to do the job, and Draco grudgingly agreed. Time-Turners were expensive and precious to the Ministry, and their patronage would bring even more business. That didn't mean Draco _enjoyed_ working on the task; at least the pay was good. The blasted things were taking far too long to fix; the nature of the Time-Turners was to break, and then mend, and then break again. It was fiddly, complicated kind of repair Draco loathed, and the Ministry had sent him twenty to fix.

Benson interrupted his thoughts again by pushing the door open again, this time with his arms laden with a large model of the solar system. Draco spotted the issue immediately; while the rest of the planets were happily revolving around the sun, Venus had been knocked off course and was now orbiting pathetically around Saturn's smallest moon, Hyperion.

"Put it next to that cracked Pensive, Benson."

The young man did as Draco directed, having experienced Draco's displeasure before when he had been chatty while he worked. Draco would never tell Benson how invaluable he was; the young man learned quickly about Draco's quirks and usually had the good sense to respect them. Draco had hired and fired two other assistants before finding Benson, unable to deal with their incessant talking, questions, and problems.

The bell over the door tinkled musically, and Benson hurried out to greet whomever had walked in. Draco sighed, returning to the Time Turner that was currently trying to explode in a spray of glass and sand once more. Moments later, a familiar voice made him freeze, and promptly get showered with the Time Turner's debris.

"It's very old, and don't even bother guessing how valuable it is. You see that chink in the glass? Yes, that's been getting wider every day."

Draco stood up, letting the Time Turner mend and break itself again on his workbench. Before going out into the front of his shop, Draco checked his appearance carefully. He took no chances. Every morning he placed an _Aspectus_ charm on his face, changing his features just enough to make him unrecognizable; his nose was slightly longer and crooked, his eyes were shaped differently, and he had a taller forehead and less prominent cheek-bones. Draco had never been a dab hand at Transfiguration, but that particular charm was simple enough, and effective. Today was no different. Dominic Markeley's face stared back at him, reassuring, steady. Draco took a deep breath and went through the door.

Blaise Zabini was standing at the counter, holding a beautiful, foot-high glass statue of a dancing faun in his gloved hands. He was as dark and haughty as ever, the familiar disdainful look in his almond-shaped eyes. Dressed in immaculate, expensively-cut robes, he looked exactly like Draco remembered him from school.

"Ah, Mr. Markeley." Blaise turned toward him, showing no signs of recognition. "A pleasure to meet you. I'm Blaise Zabini."

Draco woodenly shook Blaise's outstretched hand, staring into the familiar face unblinkingly. "Dominic Markeley. What do you need repaired?"

Blaise looked down at his cracked statue, which was surrounded in a pale, magical golden glow. _Probably something old, priceless, and completely useless for anything else other than looking pretty,_ Draco thought dully. He watched Blaise carefully as the other man described the problem the statue had. He had slept two beds away from Blaise all through Hogwarts, and even though it was his own fault, Draco felt completely alienated from the man standing across the counter from him. He felt a distinct twinge of regret at being so casually dismissed by a once-close friend, but over the course of his self-imposed exile the pain had become so familiar he didn't dwell on it for long. In a way, it was a mark of the success of his disguise.

"-And how long do you imagine it would take to fix this? I'm hosting a gala next week I would like to have it back before next Thursday." Blaise looked up at Draco expectantly, meeting his stare. "Is there something wrong?

Draco mentally shook himself. "No, sir, nothing." The _sir_ rolled off of his tongue awkwardly; five years ago Blaise would have been calling _him_ sir, joking around and bowing grandly for the puffed-up little Malfoy heir. "By Thursday, you said? That ought to be manageable."

"Excellent." Blaise set the statue down on the counter, shook Draco's hand, and swept imperiously from the shop.

"Mr. Markeley…?" Benson trailed off, looking sideways at Draco with concern etched in his dark eyes. "You okay?"

Draco raised one eyebrow, sending his assistant a steely glare. Benson immediately turned away, picking up a lifeless Snitch from a shelf under the counter and walking it back into Draco's workroom. Draco hesitated, looking down at the statue on the counter. On closer inspection, he realized he recognized it. Blaise's second step-father had purchased it from France for Blaise's mother some time ago, and Draco remembered seeing it on the mantle when his school-friend had invited him over during the summer between the third and fourth year at Hogwarts. Blaise had been holding a party for his fourteenth birthday, and had pointed the statue out to all of the boys he had invited.

"Benson, I'm out for lunch. Finish your work and then you can leave for the day." Draco called into the back, and pushed open the shop's front door soon as he heard Benson's muffled response of "Cheers, Boss."

Diagon Ally was filled with bright sunlight, and teaming with weekend shoppers. His shop was adjacent to Fortescue and Sons ice cream parlor, and the gray, wizened Florean waved merrily at him as Draco flipped his open-closed sign on the shop door. Draco nodded in response, and then set off down the ally at a leisurely pace. A few of his other neighboring shop-owners called out greetings as he walked by, and Draco fought back a smile as he acknowledged them. No one scowled at him, spat at his feet as he walked by; no one paid him much mind at all. The freedom to move through a crowd without notice was a new kind of peace that he would have never appreciated at Hogwarts.

And that was why Dominic Markeley existed. Dominic Markeley was accepted. Draco Malfoy was not.

The few weeks after the end of the war were the worst in Draco's recollection. They were darker than his parents' convictions and deaths, darker than his one brief meeting with the Dark Lord, and even darker than his experience on top of the Astronomy Tower in his sixth and final year at Hogwarts.

For the majority of his life, Draco had known nothing but acceptance and admiration by his peers. His mother showered him with affection, paying heed to his every whim and desire as a child. His father had always made sure he had the best of everything. At Hogwarts, he was accepted into the Slytherin House with respect bordering on reverence because of his wealthy, impressive heritage. Even in the midst of the Death Eaters, his plans to gain entrance into Hogwarts had earned him a grudging recognition as a man made of tough enough material to be named among them. After his neutrality, and after the war, however- there was not a soul alive that he could truly call a friend.

The complete and utter alienation, the desolate loneliness, and the tangible hatred had driven Draco to the edge of despair. The death threats, the fearful stares, and the poisonous disdain that Draco received was the utter opposite from everything else he had experienced, and without any mental armor, Draco had suffered the effects to their fullest. The final, ironic punishment he was forced to endure took place at his trial; the only person to speak in his defense had been his biggest rival.

Even after he had been cleared of all charges, and was legally no longer an enemy of the Wizarding World, Draco knew that no one was convinced. He realized he was completely alone; he had finally been abandoned… he was friendless at long last. The pampered little prince of Slytherin he had once been was completely destroyed, and unless Draco made a radical change, he knew the loss would consume him.

So Draco disappeared, and reemerged as Dominic Markeley, a wizard of small consequence with just enough gold to start a small business. No one suspected that the haughty Malfoy heir and the hard-working, less-than-middle-class shop owner were one and the same. Callus and impersonal, Draco's armor was repaired and strengthened. True, his new existence had its negative side-affects; obviously his disappearance had caused the Ministry to rethink his trustworthiness. It was a lonely way to live, but it was leaps and bounds better than the life assigned to Draco Malfoy.

Draco's musings were brought to a close when he reached his destination. A small deli had been squeezed between Twillfit and Tatting's Robe shop and a discount cauldron store. Draco visited it daily for his favorite sandwich.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Markeley," the owner's teenage daughter, Fanny, greeted him enthusiastically. She had the tendency to want to flip her blonde hair around a lot when Draco entered the deli, despite the blonde curls being contained under a hairnet. "You're here early."

"Am I?" Draco handed her two Sickles for his sandwich and pumpkin juice. Fanny's fingers brushed his palm as she took the coins for the till; Draco sighed inwardly as her cheeks went pink.

"It's not even one 'o' clock yet." Fanny kept chatting as she bustled around the deli, fixing his order. She hadn't come of age, and consequently had to work without magic. That didn't daunt her in the least; Draco suspected she dawdled with his order even longer than necessary as to prolong his stay.

When Fanny finally relinquished the sandwich, he hurried out of the shop and set out on the walk back to his shop at a slower pace than usual. Hopefully Benson would have cleaned up and left before he returned. Even though the young man worked quietly, Draco wanted isolation.

A pile of Muggle mail was waiting in front of Draco's door when he got home later that night. Twisting the lock, Draco pushed the pile inside with his foot, balancing groceries in his other arm. He stooped down to pick up the mail, and frowned. On the top of the stack of mail was a large envelope addressed to Harry Potter.

Draco swore under his breath. He was used to getting the mail of Scott DeCavanaugh, the previous resident of the apartment above him. The building was built differently than other apartments, the third floor being only half as wide as the two below it. This allowed for the third floor residents to have a fairly large patio off of their apartments, but the third floor was labeled officially as two-B. Consequently, Draco, living on two-A, received a lot of misaddressed mail. And now, Draco thought, scowling darkly, it looked like he was going to be getting a lot of Potter's mail.

It appeared to be an offer for a credit card, something Potter surely wouldn't miss if Draco simply threw it away. It would only be awkward if he returned it. He could see the scene in his mind; Potter would open the door slowly, unsure of why Draco was calling at all, not to mention at nine in the evening. He'd awkwardly invite Draco to tea, and Draco would refuse as politely as possible.

A toxic panic gripped Draco's insides and twisted them into a knot as he remembered the events of the previous night. Potter _knew_. He knew Draco was alive, who he was pretending to be… Who knew who Potter had already told? _But then again, there might be a chance he hasn't said anything yet,_ Draco tried to calm himself down with the thought. When the few deep breaths he took didn't help, he went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a healthy amount of scotch. Sitting in his favorite chair and nursing his scotch, he willed himself to think rationally.

He did have an excuse to see Potter; perhaps Draco could appeal to the idiotic good-will that all Gryffindors possessed and convince Potter to keep his mouth shut. He stuffed his feet back into his shoes and made his way to Potter's apartment. He knocked once.

The door opened, and loud music poured into the hallway. Potter stood in the doorway, wearing little more than a beater and low-slung sweatpants. He looked sweaty and out-of breath, and very confused to see Draco.

"Malfoy? What's up?" Potter opened the door wider, as if to usher Draco inside. He stayed where he was, holding up the letter for Potter to take.

"I get a lot of misdirected mail for your appartment, and I couldn't bear the thought of ousting you an opportunity to save fifteen percent by getting a new credit card."

Potter stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. "Gee, thanks." He took the letter and turned to put it on the counter by the door. "Lord knows I need my dose of Muggle mail. Sorry for your trouble. Care to come inside?"

Draco quirked an eyebrow at Potter's retreating back. Either fatherhood had leeched him of the few brain cells he possessed, or Potter didn't consider it dangerous to let an old arch-rival into his apartment. They had never had an amiable relationship at Hogwarts, and he had given Potter no reason to like him during and after the war. _Perhaps it's the Gryffindor good-will at work,_ Draco thought with a smirk. _In which case, it must be my lucky night._

During his contemplations, Draco noticed the dark lines of a tattoo running out from under Potter's beater. He couldn't make out what it was, but was surprised that the Boy Who Lived would indulge himself with such a frivolous self-mutilation. Wordlessly, he followed Potter into the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

Draco immediately saw that the source of the loud music was a portable stereo sitting on a corner table. Dhugal, the small boy he had met before, was dressed in pajamas and half-running, half-dancing, around the living room.

"Hey, buddy, Draco Malfoy's here again!" Potter pointed his wand carelessly at the boom box, turning the volume down so he could talk comfortably over it. Dhugal stopped his bouncing, and came over to hide shyly behind his father's leg. Potter looked down at him, amused. "Are you going to say hi or are you going to stay back there?"

Dhugal's bright green eyes found Draco's gray ones, and Dhugal mumbled a barely audible "Hi." As soon as he finished speaking, he ducked his face behind Potter's leg again.

"We were just getting ready to go to bed." Potter explained, tousling Dhugal's hair.

"By dancing…?" Draco cast his recollection back to his mother putting him to bed as a child; the soft, sweet lull of her voice singing him to sleep was a bittersweet memory. Nothing in his experience led Draco to believe that maniacal dancing was an effective method of putting children to bed.

"Tires him out." Potter said in a stage whisper, grinning. "Tires me out too, though."

"Hm." Draco took a step backwards. "I'll leave you to it." He hesitated, looking at Potter with a slight frown. "You… You wouldn't mind not mentioning…?"

Potter didn't say anything for a while, studying Draco intently. His eyes weren't cruel, nor were they untrusting. Instead, it looked as if he were studying a particularly complex puzzle. Finally, he nodded. "I won't say anything."

"I… I appreciate it." Draco mumbled awkwardly. He took another step towards the door, and reached for the handle.

"Say goodbye, Dhugal." Potter's voice was soft.

"Bye." The word was muffled into Potter's leg, almost tugging a smile from Draco's lips. Instead he nodded, and let himself out. The final thing he saw before the door swung closed was Potter lifting his son into his arms to sway back and forth in a gentle and soothing dance.

**End Chapter**

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Pen here.

Thank you all for your reviews on the first chapter. I hope that this story doesn't disappoint! Hopefully I will have the inspirational ball rolling after this chapter, and I can update more frequently.

(And no, this is not an m-preg story. I'll believe a lot about Harry; I refuse to believe he can grow a uterus. But it was an interesting prediction!)

Cheers!  
Pen


	3. Delicious Ambiguity

All characters, places, and things from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. No infringement is implied.

The chapter title was derived from a Gilda Radner quote that I think sums up Draco's feelings in this chapter.

I'd like to dedicate this chapter and its expedient arrival to a good friend of mine, known as Handmaiden of Artemis on fanfiction, because of her too-true observation that "we all need a little more Harry… Mmm." She is wise beyond her years, no?

Content Warning: Expect a bit of a colorful language. Beware, ye virgin eyes.

**Eyes of a Child  
Chapter Three: Delicious Ambiguity**

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Tom, the ancient bartender at the Leaky Cauldron, was still wiping glasses day in and out as he had been doing for the whole of Draco's recollection. The old man had taken a shine to Dominic Markeley, greeting him enthusiastically every morning when Draco walked to the bar to get to work. Tom saw Draco as another self-made, nose-to-the-grindstone entrepreneur, and thus a man worthy of note. Despite being deaf in one ear and almost completely blind, Tom still was incredibly observant and always informed of current gossip. This morning was no different. 

"Dom! Would'ja care for a cuppa before work, sir?"

Draco graced the barman with a thin-lipped smile, and moved to the bar. "I could use some strong coffee, if you don't mind."

Tom set a steaming mug in front of him, and settled in on the other side of the bar, leaning in confidentially. "Dom, you're the first t'know this. I was gonna wait until the mornin' crowd t'tell anyone, but I can' nae hold it back."

Draco took a sip of his coffee. He had long since learned that pressing Tom for information would only make him hold out longer. Tom looked over each shoulder before continuing. "One 'o' my friends at the Ministry told me 'Arry Potter got back to England last week!"

"Oh." Draco set his cup down. The name _Harry Potter_ had made something squirm uncomfortably in his stomach. "Had he been gone?"

Tom looked at him, astonished. "Do y'not read the Prophet Dom? 'Arry went on sabbatical 'bout two years ago, an' no one was for sure on where 'e went. But 'e checked in ter work yesterday, my friend said, an' it's apparent that 'e's back 'ere for good."

_Back for good,_ Draco thought, frowning slightly. _Back for good in the apartment above mine. How absolutely wonderful. _He tuned back in to what Tom was saying.

"-An', my friend says, 'Arry was goin' on about a little town called Carraroe an' 'ow peaceful it was, so call me a fool if 'e wasn't in Ireland all this whiles!"

Draco made a noncommittal noise before taking another sip of coffee. It wasn't surprising how religiously the Wizarding World followed Potter's life, almost as if he was a national mascot or a member of the royal family. Draco had seen the aftermath of the war firsthand; the celebrations in Potter's honor had lasted for weeks, and one couldn't go anywhere without hearing conversations about the Boy Who Lived. The reason for Potter's choice of apartment suddenly became clear to Draco; no one would suspect him to choose such an out-of-the-way place. Privacy must be hard to come by.

"You not much of a Potter fan, Dom?" Tom's face suddenly became severe; as if he would change his high opinion of Draco should he answer unfavorably.

"A fan?" Draco reached for the sugar dish and added two cubes to his coffee. "No. I just don't see how all of these personal invasions are a just reward for what he's done, that's all."

Tom immediately looked abashed. "We're not meanin' no 'arm, Dom, you know that. We just all appreciate what 'e's done."

"I know." Draco gave the barman another tight smile before draining his mug. "Thanks for the coffee, I'd best be leaving." He set a couple of coins onto the bar and hurried through the back door.

Diagon Ally seemed to be busier than usual, and Draco just barely managed to squeeze in between a group of giggling teenagers intent on getting to Madame Malkin's to get to his store. Benson looked up from his ledger as Draco hurried inside.

"You're late. Get waylaid by Tom?"

Draco shrugged out of his heavy cloak and folded it carefully before putting it behind the counter. "Yes. Sorry I'm behind."

Benson nodded in response. Then, suddenly, he spoke again. "Did you know Harry Potter's back in England?"

Draco's stomach tightened again, and he stood up quickly. "That's actually why Tom stopped me."

"Figures he'd already know." Benson said lightly. "I think it's ace that he's back. I heard from that lass at Quality Quidditch Supplies that he's in town. She said he came in last week to get his broomstick refinished."

"Still on that Firebolt of his?"

It slipped out casually, and Draco cursed himself as Benson raised an eyebrow at him. "What do you mean, still? Do you know him or something? I didn't even know he played any Quidditch at all, much less that he rides a Firebolt."

"We've met." Draco said shortly, injecting enough annoyance into his voice to let Benson know to drop the subject. The assistant gave him another look before busying himself with the ledger again.

"That Mr. Yesterly's coming in for his Snitch today."

"Today? Damn!" Draco crossed the room to peer down at the ledger himself. "I'm so behind with those Time-Turners…" He sighed. "Well, I'm to work then."

It was several more hours until Draco took his lunch break. The Snitch was easy enough to repair, except for the fact that it had cracked across where it had been signed by Aiden Lynch. It was fiddly work, aligning the two halves exactly together so the signature appeared flawless, before recasting a Flying Charm on it.

However, when he finally made it to the deli, he almost wished he had skipped lunch that day. Fanny was even more all of a twitter than usual, being positively agog with the gossip that Tom had invariably spread to every wizard who came to Diagon Ally by way of the Leaky Cauldron. After assuring the excitable girl that he had, in fact, heard about Potter's return, Fanny finally gave him his change and his sandwich. He hadn't gone two steps when Fanny gave a soft, breathy scream of someone who had just been punched in the stomach by surprise. Draco looked up, praying to every known deity that it wasn't-

"My God, it's Harry Potter!" Fanny was practically shaking with excitement at the sight of the Boy Who Lived standing in the doorway, looking thoroughly embarrassed at her outburst.

"Right you are," he said, grinning a bit. He busied himself with looking through the menu board to avoid her avid stare; Draco remained as still as a stone, running through every cloaking spell he had ever learned in the hopes he might pass Potter by unnoticed. Unfortunately, before he could remember a proper incantation, Potter's eyes swung around and locked with his own. Draco's heart stopped.

"Dominic!"

"You… You know him?" Fanny asked in astonishment, looking at Draco as if viewing him in a whole new light. When Draco failed to respond, Fanny turned to Potter, who was grinning broadly. _Oh, _that_ look I remember;_ Draco thought sourly. _He chooses _now_ to revert back to the prat he was as a schoolboy-!_

"Know him? Rather; we went to school together, didn't we?" Potter's grin had stretched the whole of his face, and Draco's old anger, mixed with a healthy dose of panic, came bubbling back to life. _So, 'not going to mention anything?'_ Draco sent his most hateful glare at the other man. Potter was words away from giving up information that would point all fingers to Draco's true identity. _Funny, I never remembered him as being cruel._

Fanny noticed Draco's stony expression, and looked back at Potter uncertainly. Potter laughed once, uncomfortably. "We had a bit of a competitive rivalry back at Hogwarts, but that's done with, right, Dom?"

Potter was tugging on his tie, apparently having just come from the Ministry of Magic, dressed in plain black robes with a white button-down beneath. The piano-hands undid the first two buttons, their progressed closely watched by Fanny. Draco opened his mouth, five years' worth of scathing comments on the tip of his tongue, but Potter just moved closer, still smiling, looking perfectly sincere. "How about dinner tonight? Dhugal's off at a mate's home until late." His voice was soft, soft enough so Fanny couldn't distinguish the words. "As an apology."

Draco's vision was tinged with red; he pushed past the other man, shouldering into him hard enough to make him stumble. He stalked out the door and down the street, ignoring Potter's voice calling after him. Only when Potter caught up to him and gripped his shoulder in a painfully tight vice did Draco spin on his heel and acknowledge him.

"You think this is all a _fucking_ game, Potter?" Draco's voice ran deep with a poisonous rage. "A nice little way to get some fucking _fun?"_

For this first time since their first encounter, Potter looked startled. "If that's the impression you got then I'm sor-"

"Come off it, _Potter_," Draco sneered, spinning away from him and towards a gap between two shops, needing to get away from the curious eyes of the other wizards around them. Potter followed, opening his mouth to continue, but was stopped abruptly as Draco turned on him again. "You've never really been good with subtlety, so I'll make this as fucking blunt as I possibly can. I'm sodding sick and _tired_ of you, and this act you've put up. They may all think you're some right little hero-" Draco jabbed a finger viciously at the shoppers bustling around out in the street- "but you've got _no fucking right_ to act like my friend, okay? I don't need that now, I don't need it ever-"

"Are you chalking all this up to some charity case then, Mal-" Potter started angrily, but Draco shoved him hard against the side of the Owl Emporium, knocking the breath out of his opponent.

"Don't you fucking dare say my name. It can't be plainer that you don't give a shite about anything, Potter-" he spat the name as if it left a foul taste in his mouth- "but it's my sodding life and the sooner you're out of it, the better off I'll be-"

"Have you ever considered that maybe the world doesn't revolve around you, you berk?" Potter growled, gasping for breath. "You haven't changed a _whit_ since school, it's all grudges with you-"

"You were the arsehole who decided to break a fucking promise!" Draco hissed. "I sodding _asked_ you to keep this all quiet, for some insane reason I thought you might actually shut your fucking mouth, and the next bleeding day you're all 'old chums at Hogwarts' and digging things up I've given up my fucking identity to keep buried!"

"I gave out nothing of the sort! You're just looking for reasons to hate me!" Potter had finally regained his breath. "And what was I to do when we met, treat you like you've gone through nothing when I know all too well you have? Be a complete prat to you? Well, so fucking sorry for believing you might not want to do this anymore, but obviously you do, so why even bother _trying_ to make nice?" Potter was off of the wall, glaring down at Draco heatedly. His fists were compulsively clenching at his sides, as if he would like nothing better than to land one in Draco's face. Draco glared right back.

"There's no bloody reason to make nice, Potter."

"I guess not." The other man's eyes went cool, narrowed and disdainful. "You're such a hypocrite."

"Oh? Enlighten me." Draco spat.

Potter didn't answer for a moment, straightening his clothes. Then he looked up, sending a piercing green glare straight through Draco. "I thought you'd changed your name and face so you could have a new start, and yet..." He gestured towards Draco. "Think about it- if you're not willing to give second chances than how can you expect anything different yourself?"

And with that Potter was gone with a swish of robes, leaving Draco standing alone in the dark of the ally.

**End Chapter**

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Pen here. 

Thank you all for your reviews; they are the life-giving water of inspiration in a desert of Writer's Block.

Until next chapter!  
Cheers.


	4. The Fine Art of Trickery

I'm terribly sorry about the obscenely long wait for this chapter! Also, I'd like to send out a hearty thank-you to those who reviewed this story and placed it on their watch lists. Hope this doesn't disappoint!

Just a small note- this WILL NOT be Deathly Hallows compliant. (Spolier: Um, _Scorpious?-!_) I started this story pre-DH, and it will remain that way. Thank you for your support. 

Also, I'll be periodically uploading edited chapters. Please read these when they arrive, the content is severely changed and improved, thanks to the keen eye of my beta, AutumnLeCroix. I say this only because those edits will affect the storyline and future chapters, and by not reading them this story may get confusing rather quickly.

Cheers!

**Eyes of a Child  
Chapter Four: The Fine Art of Trickery**

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_Two days later_

Draco had hardly begun to brush his teeth when a loud, insistent knock echoed through the tidy apartment. He spat toothpaste foam into the sink and hurried through the living room, wiping the corner of his mouth as he went. He pulled the door open, not quite sure who to expect at such a late hour.

"Mal- Dominic, I'm terribly sorry to be bothering you-"

"Apparently not _too_ sorry," Draco cut across Potter sarcastically. The other man looked as though he wanted to retort; instead, he restrained himself and continued on as if Draco hadn't spoken.

"I've got an emergency, and I can't take Dhugal-"

"Oh, _hell_ no-"

"Hermione's in labor."

"They let her reproduce?!" Draco burst out, unable to resist the temptation. Potter opened his mouth, looking furious, but Draco cut him off again.

"Married to Weasley, no doubt."

Potter nodded again, speaking with forced politeness. "Yeah, and it's their first child. Everyone I'd normally have baby-sit will be there."

"And I'm your very last resort?" Draco scoffed. "Surely you could find a fan-girl of yours _more_ than willing-"

"Hermione's already at Saint Mungo's, Mal- Dominic. _Please._"

Draco seriously considered shutting the door in Potter's face. _That would be so satisfying, except…_ He scowled to himself. If he thought Potter had been flippant with his identity before, he could only imagine what the wanker would do when provoked. "Fine," he snapped. "Bring the brat down."

Potter hesitated, chewing his lower lip. "He's already asleep, and I've got all my wards around my apartment…"

Draco gave Potter the most murderous glare he could muster before stepping outside his apartment, taking his wand from his pocket. He tapped the handle with it, muttering "_Colloporto_" as he did. "I don't care if Granger's having hippogriff next; this is the _only_ time I'll ever do this."

"Of course. Thank you." Potter pressed his apartment key into Draco's hand, looking immensely relieved. "If he wakes up, watch him by the door. The kid is a regular Houdini, that's why he was wandering down here the other day. I leave him alone in the living room for _one second_ without a Locking Charm on the door and he-"

"Hang on," Draco interrupted. "A regular _who?_"

"A regular Houdini. He was a Muggle magician-"

"Now there's the biggest oxymoron I've ever heard-"

"- and he was an escape artist," Potter finished. He glanced down at his watch, then back up at Draco, gratitude still lingering in the bright green eyes. "I'll be back as soon as I can. There are teabags in the cupboard-"

"Go away before I change my mind," Draco snapped. Potter nodded once before turning on the spot and Apparating with a loud crack. Draco's across-the-hall neighbor, a cantankerous old man, threw what sounded like his walking stick against his closed door in retaliation to the disruptive noise.

_Potter's such a bloody berk; it's a wonder he made it past first year._ He climbed the flight of stairs to the third level, unwilling to wait for the lift, and let himself quietly into Potter's apartment.

He stopped as something inside moved. A moment later, the shining form of a Patronus stag walked noiselessly around the corner, its antlers lowered defensively. Upon seeing Draco, the Patronus blinked once and then vanished. The apartment looked dreary and dark in the absence of the shining silver animal.

_Potter must have left it to protect the boy until I got up here,_ Draco mused. _I suppose I ought to take it as a compliment, that he thinks it's harder to get past me than a Patronus._

He went further in to the apartment, looking around curiously. It looked more lived-in than the last time Draco had been inside. There was a thick green throw draped over the couch and a small potted plant on a shelf above the radiator. Muggle photographs littered Potter's coffee table and the walls, most featuring Dhugal, smiling and laughing. There was a Wizarding picture on the wall of what that appeared to be Ron and Hermione's wedding, Ron looking well-groomed and thrilled, Hermione clothed in white and looking up at her new husband with a sickening simper. Draco didn't spare it a second glance after his eyes found Potter, grinning happily in his position of best man.

_What's that? That's not Ginny Weasley, is it?_ Draco moved closer to the shelf above the radiator, focused on the small, framed Muggle picture sitting next to the potted geranium. In the midst of a vast, green-and-gold field, two people sat cross-legged in the grass. One was unmistakably Potter, thick-rimmed glasses, scar and all, and the other was a red-headed woman. Draco lifted the photograph down from the shelf to squint into their unmoving faces.

It wasn't Ginny Weasley, as Draco had expected. This woman was also a redhead, her wavy hair reaching just past her shoulders. She was leaning happily against Potter, a carefree smile across her face that was very different from the mischievous smirk of the youngest Weasley. She had large brown eyes, a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a dimple in one cheek. She looked as if she'd be as tall as Potter when standing, and she was thin and willowy. She had one hand on Potter's knee, and Draco could just barely make out the dark lines of a tattoo encircling her wrist.

_This must be Dhugal's mum._ Draco studied her face, picking out the similarities she and her son shared. The hair, the shape of the face… it seemed as if Dhugal was mostly his mother's son, all except for Potter's eyes.

Draco looked over in the photo to the eyes in question. Potter was grinning as broadly as his cheeks allowed; he looked even happier than the nameless girl next to him, if it was possible. His hair was wilder than usual, bits of bracken clinging to the rumpled mess, suggesting that he had recently been tumbling around in the grass. He looked, oddly enough, younger than he ever had in Draco's memory; the twenty-something Potter looked genuinely carefree, unburdened by any issue or crisis of the Wizarding world. This new lightheartedness, Draco figured, was surely caused by the unknown woman sitting so intimately by Potter's side.

Draco had to admit he was curious. Ever since Potter had let it slip that he lived alone with Dhugal, Draco had wondered what had happened to make the precious hero of the Wizarding world a single-parent bachelor. Draco knew that Potter would rather hex him before confiding in him, especially after the scene in the ally. However, an unwillingness to divulge secrets was no longer a particularly difficult hurdle for Draco anymore; dear Aunt Bellatrix's training in Legilimancy had made sure of that.

"Where's Daddy?"

Dhugal's soft, sleepy voice jolted Draco out of his musings. He whirled around and Dhugal took a little step back, startled by the quick movement. Dhugal looked even more like his father with a bed-head, his hair sticking up in every direction. Draco cursed his bad luck. The brat was supposed to stay asleep so Draco wouldn't have to deal with him.

"Your father went to spend time with Weasley and Grang- the Weasleys. Hermione is… having her baby." Draco shook his head at the thought. He hadn't ever really spared much thought on Potter's two overzealous sidekicks, but he had always suspected that Hermione, being such a swotty know-it-all, would become a Professor or something equally academic. Ron, he had guessed, would be left to carve out a living off of some poor-paying, low skill-level job. He had known, along with most of the student population, that the two fancied each other, but to end up married and with child in only five short years after school? He wondered vaguely if Hermione was planning on postponing her career by becoming an at-home mother.

Dhugal seemed placated by Draco's answer. "Aunt 'Mione's belly was _huge_," he whispered. "Uncle Ron kept telling me she was gonna 'splode soon."

Draco lifted an eyebrow. "He always had such a sharp wit, that Weasley."

Dhugal toddled forward and caught hold of Draco's pant leg, tugging him toward the kitchen. "Can I have milk? Mafoy, can I? Please?"

"You need to go to sleep." Draco tried not to sound irritated as he gently shook the boy off of him. Instantly, Dhugal's lower lip jutted out unhappily, his green eyes fixing his reluctant protector in a reproachful stare.

"Daddy always lets me have milk, Mafoy."

Draco sighed, one hand flying up to massage his temple. "Okay, fine. Whatever Daddy says, then." He started toward the kitchen. "And it's _Mal_foy, not _Ma_foy."

The kitchen was set up in much the same way as Draco's was. A refrigerator hummed noisily in one corner, flanked by a small dish washer. Light cream cabinets lined the walls of the small room, and a similarly colored table was pushed up against the nearest wall to the door. Dhugal raced into the kitchen after him and over to the refrigerator, leaving Draco to search the cupboards for a glass. He located Potter's mismatched collection on his second try and selected one at random.

"Not that one."

Draco blinked. "Pardon?"

Dhugal pointed at the cup in Draco's hand. "I want my lemon cup." His voice was still soft, barely above a mumble.

_Infernal brat. I ought to Stun him now and tell Potter he never woke up._ Draco stifled the appealing thought and looked into the cupboard, exasperated. There wasn't a single glass inside that looked like it could be called a 'lemon cup.' "Where is it?"

Dhugal trundled over to where Draco stood, set the milk carton down on the floor and lifted both arms up expectantly. Draco stared at him, nonplussed. "What?"

"I wanna go up. I'll get it."

_Surely he doesn't want me to lift…?_ He groaned a little as Dhugal shook his arms once, impatient. Draco bent down and scooped the toddler into his arms awkwardly, having never really held a child before. Dhugal seemed unaware of his discomfort and selected a small green cup. Draco looked at it closely and saw a faded, barely-there print of lemons circling the rim of the cup.

"Why is it so important to have this particular glass?" Draco looked at the relic in distaste, lowering Dhugal to the floor. The boy didn't answer his question, dutifully uttering a "Thank-you" instead before turning his attention to filling up the cup with milk.

However, by the end of the third glass of milk, it was clear that the boy wasn't planning on returning to sleep. Draco looked at the clock on the wall above the refrigerator, groaning as he realized it was half-past one. He had to open up shop in six hours, and he always felt useless and far more irritable if he hadn't gotten his eight-and-a-half hours of sleep each night.

"Okay, Dhugal, it's time for bed." Draco held up a hand as the toddler began to protest. "I know you father may be a lenient, nocturnal freak of nature, but you and I need our sleep."

He seized Dhugal by the hand, and started to march him back toward the bedrooms down the hall. The first was obviously Potter's room; his Firebolt stood on a stand in the far corner, and a queen-sized bed lay unmade in the center of the room. The room next to it, which served as Draco's study one floor below, was decorated with several stuffed animals and a comforter patterned with Golden Snitches. Dhugal hopped up onto the bed, pulling a well-loved stuffed niffler under the covers with him. Draco turned out the night once the boy was settled, and gently closed the door.

He couldn't help but like the little boy, even if he was Potter's son. He was much shyer that Draco would have figured the offspring of such a bold man, but the fact that he wasn't brashly outgoing only further endeared Dhugal to him.

_Poor kid. With a name like Dhugal and a father like Potter, he'll get no breaks when he gets to school_. Draco sat down on the couch, wishing he could Summon his book from his apartment below without risk of a Muggle seeing the book zooming up the elevator shaft. Finally he had Dhugal out of his way, but he didn't know what to do with himself, save rummaging through Potter's bedroom for a diary or letters to amuse himself. However, he was only left home a few more minutes before light footsteps down the hall alerted him to the little boy's presence.

"I thought I said you should go to sleep."

Dhugal made a truly adorable picture, one thumb in his mouth and his other hand wrapped around the toy niffler's front leg. He looked at Draco timidly. "Can I wait 'till Daddy comes home?"

"You really ought to get to sleep," Draco said half-heartedly. _Well, at least he'll give me something to do with myself until Potter comes back. _"Alright, though."  
_Now the only problem is I have no idea how to keep a two-year old entertained._ He remembered Potter and Dhugal's wild dancing that he had walked in on a week prior, and immediately dismissed the idea. The boy had an answer to the unasked question, waddling over to the Muggle television set and turning it on. Satisfied with the brightly-colored figures dancing on screen, Dhugal turned back to the couch and climbed into a surprised Draco's lap, pulling the green woolen throw blanket along with him.

Whatever it was they were watching was both mindless and monotonous, following the not-so-adventurous lives of two talking turtles. Dhugal stared at the screen, enraptured, but Draco's eyelids felt as heavy as dragon scales. The effort of keeping them open became a chore, and after a few minutes of the show, Draco surrendered himself to sleep.

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He awoke with a jolt. Someone had moved Dhugal's comfortable weight off of his lap, and for a moment, Draco groggily pawed at his pocket for his wand. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he saw Potter, arms wrapped around his son, walking slowly toward the toddler's bedroom. 

"Sod it all," Draco slumped back down into the sofa, his heart rate slowing back to normal. Moments later, Potter came out of the hallway.

"Merlin's beard, you scared the sodding _hell_ out of me," Draco threw the woolen blanket off of his leg as Potter pulled an armchair close to the coffee table.

"Sorry. You looked so comfortable I didn't want to wake you." By the tone of Potter's voice and the look of ill-concealed amusement, Draco could tell he was trying his hardest not to laugh. Draco sent him a dirty look, imagining Potter's delight at finding him in such an undignified state of repose. "Thank you again, though. Poor Dhugal would have been terrified of Saint Mungo's."

Draco smoothed his hair back, guessing from the dryness of his throat that he had been sleeping with his mouth open. _As long as that arsehole didn't take a picture…_ He swallowed, trying to dispel the uncomfortable scratchy feeling. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Potter said blankly.

"What did Granger pop out?"

"Oh, right." As he talked, Potter flicked his wand to Summon two mugs from the kitchen. "A sweet little girl. No hair yet, but my bet is that it'll be as red as her father's." He flicked his wand again, filling the mugs with steaming water and teabags.

They continued conversation, keeping their words polite and shallow, both men acutely aware of the unresolved tension from their fight in the ally only a few days prior. Potter began to describe Malloy Weasley's delight in her first granddaughter, and Draco watched him closely, pretending to care about what he was saying. He knew it would be difficult to employ Legilimancy against Potter without the other man noticing, but Draco was confident with his skills in subterfuge. He wasn't about to be satisfied by the bits and pieces of garbled information he would undoubtedly hear through gossip, nor was he going to leave his curiosity unsatisfied. The information about Potter's life could very well come in handy, should Draco need leverage against the man who alone knew his true identity.

Potter slumped back wearily in his armchair looking exhausted, quite unlike his image in the photograph Draco had studied earlier. Dark, dusky circles seemed permanently etched under his eyes, serving only to further enhance the startling green of his irises. "Dhugal seems to like you. He's usually so shy with strangers, as you've seen" Potter took a noisy gulp of his tea, wincing as he swallowed the hot liquid.

Potter continued on, looking sufficiently distracted talking about his son, his eyelids at half-mast. Draco gripped the handle of his wand and casually pulled it out of his pocket, adjusting his position as if the thin rod was making him uncomfortable. _Now, if I could get him to think about her. _The more help Potter gave him, the easier it would be. _Let's try the direct approach. _

"I hear you were on holiday in Ireland, all this time."

Several things happened at once. Potter choked a little on his tea, and then fixed stares with Draco. Draco concentrated, and thought _Legilimens!_ subtly flicking his wand. A barrage of memories, none of which were his own, flooded the forefront of his mind. An instant later Draco broke the connection, quite certain Potter had never noticed it was there; having been so powerfully consumed with his flood of memories, Potter probably didn't realize he was sharing all of them with Draco.

Potter quickly regained his composure, but not his light-hearted demeanor. He gave Draco a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I guess news travels fast."

"You made the mistake of telling Tom the barman." Draco informed him. "He told me, and probably everyone else who stopped in, about your conversation."

He stood quickly, politely draining his tea. Potter stood as well, stony-faced. "Thanks again."

"Of course." Draco nodded once, and then swept out the door.

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**End Chapter**

Next time: all of Harry's memories. Whoo! I'm really looking forward to that; I've been planning it all out for some time now. Hooray for Draco being a right little ass and thefting Harry's memories!


	5. All Bombs Away, Live For Today

Whoo! Super-quick update!

The edited chapter one has been posted! Many thanks to my beta Autumn LeCroix (go and enjoy her story, it's fantastic, no jokes.)

Props to the Young Dubliners, I got my chapter title from their fantastic song Say It's So. A hearty thanks to LittleKuriboh for some seriously funny YGO Abridged Series episodes, which I quoted in this chapter. Also, a nod to the rune maker website for the ancient rune meanings.

**Eyes of a Child  
Chapter Five: All Bombs Away, Live For Today**

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Draco barely paused at his apartment door, Summoning his shop keys before turning on his heel and heading out into the night. He walked briskly around to the back of the apartment, behind the dumpsters to Apparate to the door of his shop. It was dangerous, but Draco highly doubted that any of his Muggle neighbors would be peering out into the darkness at four in the morning. He usually didn't take the risk, opting instead to make the walk to the Leaky Cauldron, but tonight he would rather not rouse Tom's suspicions regarding his business in the near-deserted Diagon Ally.

He entered the shop quickly, and hurried into the back room. The cracked Pensive was exactly where Benson had left it, high of a shelf, still awaiting repair. Draco levitated it down carefully on his workbench. The crack ran across the intricate runes, rendering them useless. He spent the better part of an hour looking up translations, muttering the runes while he repaired the crack, restoring each broken rune's magical properties. 'Othila,' the rune for acquisition, was one of the most important aspects of the Pensive and required the most concentration to repair. Draco, with his attention divided between the task at hand and the anticipation of viewing Potter's memories, had a difficult time restoring it to working order.

His perseverance won out, and the basin was restored shortly before five-fifteen in the morning. The hint of a sunrise filtered through the window shades, as cold and clear as any typical London morning. Draco wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, pushing his unkempt hair away from his eyes. Putting his wand tip to his temple, Draco pulled several silvery strands of memory away and placed them into the basin, where they separated and writhed like a thick silver gas. Turning toward the shop's entrance, Draco pointed his wand at the handle, locking the door with a muttered Locking Charm. Certain he was free from prying eyes, Draco plunged headfirst into Harry Potter's memories.

* * *

He landed in a merrily-lit room with walls laden with pen-and-ink artwork, mostly featuring different types of Celtic patterns. There was a large window facing a busy street, and Draco read the backward letters emblazoned across the glass. _Ink Me Artful._

Potter wasn't hard to find in the tiny tattoo parlor; he was stretched out on a raised, padded table, shirtless and lying facedown. The red-headed woman was sitting next to him, needle gun in hand, studying a sketch of a pair of stag antlers. Her hair was cropped much shorter than Draco had seen in the picture; the curly locks only reached her jaw. He could clearly see the tattoo around her wrist now; it was an intricate Celtic knot, much like the ones on the walls.

"All right," the girl was saying, her Irish lilt light and smooth. "Final answer. Are y'certain y'want this? They're awful expensive to remove, not to mention painful."

Potter nodded, turning his head to look at her. "I'm certain."

"All right then, Mr. Potter." She started the needle gun up, fastening the sketch on a clipboard by her chair. "One pair 'o' stag antlers, comin' right up."

Draco watched as the girl proceeded to duplicate the design on Potter's shoulders. He had to wonder why Potter was having a tattoo done in such a slow and painful manner; magical tattoos were simple, quick, and always easy to remove on the wizard's whim. Draco, guessing from all of his previous knowledge concerning the Boy Who Lived, figured it was some strange show of heroics on Potter's part.

As she continued, the girl started up a laid-back conversation to distract her subject from the discomfort of the needle. "So why antlers? Are y'a big game hunter, or what?"

Potter made a noise of amusement. "Not a game hunter, no. 'Prongs' was my dad's nickname… He always liked stags… He died when I was one, so I wanted to get a tattoo to, er, sort of honor his memory."

The whirring of the tattoo gun didn't slow down, but her voice grew softer. "That's sweet of you."

Potter chuckled, obviously a little embarrassed by his sentimental statement. "I guess. Also, from what I've heard of him, he'd be the type of father to encourage me to get a tattoo."

"Oh, you had a _cool_ dad," The girl grinned. "My dad nearly shat himself when he saw my tattoo. Then when I got this job, well… y'can imagine he wasn't too pleased."

Draco wished the memory would end; listening to the pair exchange increasingly friendly conversation was growing dull. Just as his concentration was beginning to wane, the girl finally introduced herself.

"I don't think I've properly introduced myself. Delaney Owen."

"I'd shake your hand, Delaney Owen, but unfortunately I'm in a rather _sticky_ situation."

"Oh, nice." Delaney said dryly. "Real funny, that. I don't think I've heard that one before, either."

"Okay, alright, I know, it was a cheap joke!"

"You bet it was a cheap joke. You ought to make it up to me, just t'ease your conscience."

Draco knew a not-so-subtle opening when he heard one, and apparently, so did Potter. "Coffee, then? I'll buy. When are you off of work?"

Delaney gave a true, full smile, a faint blush staining her cheeks. "Five. There's a little place around the corner…"

The tattoo parlor faded (_Finally,_ Draco thought) and he found himself in a throng of people leaving a Muggle cinema. He searched the crowd for Potter, finding him thanks to his characteristic untidy hair. Draco approached the couple, and as he drew near Potter gave great shout of laughter.

He had apparently found the movie they had just seen extremely funny. Delaney also looked amused, but more at Potter's reaction than anything else.

"'S-S-Screw the rules, I have money!'" Potter howled, nearly doubling up with laughter. Delaney giggled, watching as other movie-goers gave her and Potter a wide berth.

"What about when the short one almost got harpooned by the-"

"Freaky fish guy!" Potter finished, his eyes streaming with mirth. He actually stopped walking so he could laugh unhindered. Delaney started to laugh as well, prodding Potter with more quotes from the movie until both of them where whooping uncontrollably in the parking lot. Delaney fell against Potter in her merriment, and he steadied her, putting his hands on her shoulders. In the next instant, Potter was kissing her deeply, and then the parking lot faded as the memory ended…

They were in the field from the photograph in Potter's apartment, the distant roar of waves evidence of the sea's close proximity. Delaney's hair was much longer, to her shoulders like Draco remembered, and he judged that more than two months had passed from the previous memory. Delaney was wearing a camera around her neck and the blue cotton dress that Draco remembered from the photograph, walking hand in hand with Potter. He hurried to walk behind them to catch what they were saying.

"… Granddad wanted to name his first son Dhugal, too, after all of the other first-born sons in the Connolly family. But he and Grandma only ever had daughters."

"And you have no siblings…" Potter supplied, and Delaney nodded. "So my mum never got to name a Connolly heir Dhugal, either."

"So now the burden falls to you?" Potter asked. He had his fingers lightly curled around hers, and he never once took his eyes off of her as they walked. He seemed to watch her as if he had been bidden to memorize every curve of her face. Draco knew that look. He had seen it in the face of his father when he looked at Draco's mother- complete, idiotic, unconditional love.

"I guess." She wrinkled her nose, laughing. "I never really liked the name Dhugal; it sounds so… so stuffy. But I've always been plannin' on it, even if it was subconsciously. Is that stupid?" She turned to him suddenly, her face serious. Potter reached toward her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"No, it makes sense. It's a family tradition, an important one. I'm named after _my_ father, in a way."

"Harry James Potter." Delaney said in a lilting sing-song. The couple began to walk again, continuing on in silence. The edge of a cliff moved closer to them with their every step, and the roaring of the ocean grew louder, the waves pounding in harmony to the quiet birdsong.

Draco could see a side of Potter's face, and he could tell that the other man was deep in conflicting thought. Finally, as if reaching an important decision, Potter turned to face Delaney again.

They remained silent, searching each other's faces. Delaney suddenly broke into a smile, dropping Potter's hand to cup his cheek instead. "Don't look so worried, Harry. Mr. Carmichael gave you the whole day off; my parents are out of town and couldn't have any idea that you and I are together, I love you and it's a perfect day."

Harry laughed once; the noise was strained. "I'm not worried about your parents, Della. Well, that's not entirely true, they do terrify me, especially your mum," he consented, making her giggle knowingly. "It's just…" He broke off, eyes searching her face anxiously.

"What?" A slight crease appeared between her eyebrows. "What's wrong?"

"There's something I've been wanting to tell you, but I'm scared to." Potter leaned into her touch, bringing up his hand to cover hers. "I don't want to push you away."

"Come off it, Harry." Delaney said jokingly, but she still looked worried. "You… Y'not married, are you?"

"No! No," Potter assured her. He hesitated, and then as Draco had already guessed he would, Potter pulled his holly wand from the pocket of his jeans. Delaney looked at it quizzically, and Potter moved a couple steps away from her. He took a deep, steadying breath, and then waved it.

A number of shooting stars went streaking across the blue horizon, and a flock of white doves flew out from nowhere to chase the path of the stars. Delaney took a step back, surprised, but Potter hadn't finished yet. He waved his wand again, and large, pungent red roses sprang from the green-gold earth, spelling _Delaney_ before bursting into red-and-gold sparks that rose into the sky in a spectacular display.

"H-Harry?" Delaney stood her ground, eyes full of wonder. "Harry, what's goin' on?"

"Della, I've kept nothing from you except this. I- I'm a wizard." Harry spread his arms wide. "I might be a complete and utter berk for telling you, because- because it's so bloody complicated, but… but I just-"

Delaney took a slow step forward, effectively silencing Harry. He let his arms drop down to his sides, his right hand still tightly clutched around his wand. She took two more steps toward him, closing the gap until she was directly in front of him. He stared down into her face, looking more frightened than Draco had ever seen him.

"Harry," she said clearly. "You could never, _ever_ push me away."

He laughed weakly, flinging his arms around her, holding her as close as he could. Delaney pulled away, her face still slightly bewildered. "What else can you do?"

"Remember when we met, what I told you about my dad?"

She nodded once, and he grinned. "My dad's favorite animal was a stag, because he could transform into one."

"You're _shittin'_ me."

"Nope. My Patronus- it's a protective spell, it takes on the form of an animal- my Patronus is a stag, after him." He raised his wand, gazing lovingly down into her face, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

The enormous silver stag erupted from the end of Potter's wand, cantering across the meadow, disappearing once it reached the top of the hill. Delaney watched its progress open-mouthed, and Potter laughed again. The next couple of minutes passed with Potter showing an awed Delaney other spells and charms. Finally, she started to look less shell-shocked, and laughed as Potter Transfigured a couple of pebbles into large white rabbits.

"And Wizarding pictures, if you develop them right, _move_," Potter grinned at Delaney's incredulous look. She slipped the camera strap off of her neck, and handed it to Potter.

"Harry, let's take a picture!"

"I'm not sure how to develop them to make them move…" Potter began, but Delaney simply beamed at him.

"Let's take one anyway. I brought it so I could get lots of silly pictures of you on y'day off, but this is better."

"Okay." Potter pointed at the camera with his wand. "_Locomotor camera_!" The camera began to float away from them, pausing and pivoting on the spot as Potter aimed it at them. Delaney dropped into the grass and he followed suit. They positioned themselves as Draco had seen in the photograph, and then the scene faded out again…

This room was as light and as airy as the tattoo parlor, but leaps and bounds more formal and old fashioned. Dusky blue curtains framed the large windows, and the furniture was impeccably dusted and well-cared for. An older man sat at a dark oak table, one hand playing idly with the crocheted table runner, and over by a window there was an older woman. She was looking at Potter, who was sitting opposite the other man, with an expression that was a mix of sadness and anger. Potter's jaw was set and his mouth nothing more a thin, hard line. The tension in the room was palpable.

"Delaney doesn't know you're talking to us, and I'd like it to stay that way," the woman was saying. Draco looked at her closely, supposing she was Delaney's mother. There wasn't much of a resemblance between the two; Delaney looked much more like her father, sharing his wild red hair and deep brown eyes. "I assume you've guessed why we have asked you here?"

"I have an idea, but why don't you tell me straight out?" Potter forced the words out from between clenched teeth.

The woman sighed, and a hardness appeared in her eyes that didn't suit her kindly face. "You must know we're only looking out for our daughter's best interests-"

"By sneaking behind her back, trying to make her choices for her?" Potter cut in loudly. "Yeah, that seems like a really great parenting decision."

"I will not be spoken to like that!" Mrs. Owen flared up immediately, glowering at him. Mr. Owen calmly intervened.

"Harry, I know you and Delaney are fond of each other, but you must understand our concerns. You two have known each other for little over a year. You're a nice young man-" Mrs. Owen snorted in disbelief- "but you're barely pullin' in a livin' at that job 'o' yourn, and you've not got even a high school degree-"

"I went to a private school, thanks." Potter cut in coldly.

"Of _course_ y'did." Mrs. Owen said condescendingly. "Then y'don't mind my askin' which fine institution y'attended?

Potter hesitated, and Draco knew why. 'Hogwarts' wasn't the most believable name for a classy school with an impressive reputation. But the smug look on Mrs. Owen's face seemed to goad Potter into speech. "I went to Hogwarts School. It's north of London, about five hours by train."

Mrs. Owen scoffed. "Hogwarts? Really? Oh, I've heard so much about that place, indeed. It's just down the river from the Old Woman who lived in a shoe!"

"Your schooling or lack there of isn't really the point," Mr. Owen cut in before Potter could respond. "Delaney, as you know, is in her final year at university, she needs to focus on her career, and t'be frank, you're a distraction she can't afford right now."

"Della's brilliant," Potter responded, sounding as if he was trying to calm himself down, so he could argue rationally. "School's a lark for her, I know that, and 'distracted' or no, she'll still be ace of her class." He looked directly at Mrs. Owen, sending her a blistering glare. "You just don't think I'm good enough for her."

"You're damn right I don't!" Mrs. Owen raged. Her lips were pursed, and she had balled both of her fists. However, her voice wavered as she spoke and her eyes were brimming with tears. "D'you think I'm happy, knowen' my only daughter has fallen in with some travelin' bumpkin from abroad, with no skills and no money? She met you in a _tattoo_ parlor, for God's sake! I'm loosin' sleep at night, wonderin' if she'll get pregnant, or hurt, and then there goes the rest of her life!"

Potter was breathing heavily, a muscle going in his jaw as he visibly fought to control the furious diatribe he longed to throw back at her. "I am in love with her-"

"And y'think that's good enough?" Mrs. Owen hissed. "Y'think y'can just flaunt that fact around, and have everythin' thrown at your feet? Stop bein' so damned selfish!"

There was a heavy silence. Potter stared at Mrs. Owen, looking as though she had just slapped him about the face. Draco wondered how much it was costing him not to whip out his wand and show them who he truly was. In that moment, Draco was more on Harry's side than he ever had been, if ever, and he truly wished that Harry would give them the truth. Harry had a home, he had money, he had an entire country of wizards throwing themselves at his feet in gratitude… But Draco knew Harry; he wouldn't tell them just to impress them, even if it meant he could get what he wanted. _Or,_ Draco mused, watching Harry's stricken face, _he's frightened that they'll reject him all the more. A freak after their only child…_

It didn't matter what he was thinking, because Mr. Owen spoke up softly. "If you don't care about what we think, Harry, at least consider her future. I know you love her, but think- is it enough? You know her… all of her plans, her thoughts and dreams have always been here, in Ireland. I've heard y'talken' together about your move back to London, and how she could come with… But this is her home, and I know in your heart of hearts y'know it's true." Mr. Owen looked at Harry with a touch of pity in his face. "An' I know you've got your doubts; I see them in your eyes. Think, Harry… does she really want this, or are y'just seeing what y'want to? Are y'just bein' selfish?"

Harry stood up abruptly. "I-I appreciate your concerns, but I really think it's up to Della to decide." His voice was quiet, and his words lacked conviction. What Mr. Owen had said about selfishness had rattled him, Draco could tell. As Harry turned on his heel, the room faded into blackness. This shift in memories seemed prolonged to Draco, until his eyes adjusted and he saw that the room Harry was in was dark.

"_Lumos_." Harry muttered, and a soft light shone from his wand tip, revealing the room they sat in. It looked like a cramped apartment bedroom, smaller than the one Draco lived in. Delaney was asleep on a bed, her hair around her head on the pillow like a dark red halo. Harry, sitting at a small desk feet away from the end of the bed, just watched her for a time, brows furrowed in thought. Finally he moved, drawing a piece of paper toward him and picking up a pencil. Draco moved closer, peering over his shoulder to read what he was writing. It was an explanatory farewell letter. Some sentences were particularly clear in Harry's memory, and Draco skimmed over the rest.

_"God, Della, I don't know how to do this… Your parents, your dad especially, made some points I can't deny… I love you, I always will… Wait a year, just a year, finish school and if you still want me, just come to London, I'll wait for you…"_

Harry finished writing, scanning his letter a final time before folding it, and placing it on the unused pillow nest to Delaney's head. He hesitated, leaned over, and pressed his lips to her forehead. He turned away roughly, tearing his eyes away from her as if the action was physically difficult. As he headed out of the door, the room faded to a true black and the memory changed again…

The room was a classy, modern space with a high ceiling and light brown walls. Soft blue furniture and other accoutrements were placed tastefully around the room, and there were two medium-sized square windows that looked out on a small town, settled on a series of rolling fields.

Harry was sitting on a couch in the center of the room with his head between his hands, his shoulders heaving in dry sobs. Draco could see a bit of his face; there were no tears on his cheeks, but he was biting his lip so hard he had drawn blood. Hermione, clad in a Muggle business suit, was perched next to him on the couch. She was rubbing his back in small, slow circles, glancing up occasionally to a tall redheaded man standing with his back to Draco.

It was Ron Weasley, as Draco had already guessed. He was scanning an official-looking letter that was crumpled from being reread time and again. Draco peered over his shoulder to read along as he had done to Harry in the previous memory, though he had already guessed the contents of this note.

"_…died October fourteenth… car accident, unavoidable… the child wasn't with her, she had dropped him off with us the night before… We're sending him to you… her will expressly stated that he should grow up under your care, if you accepted… terribly sorry… we feel horrible about what was said that day… regards, Aiden Owen."_

"Blimey, Harry, I'm sorry," Ron said softly, his freckled face shocked. "And you didn't… you didn't know about the baby before this?"

"No." Harry's voice was raspy, as if he had already screamed himself hoarse in shock and loss. "She probably didn't find out 'till after I left…" He looked up at Hermione; his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as tired and haggard as Professor Lupin. "Sorry about giving them your address, it was the only one I could think of…"

"Nonsense, don't be sorry." Hermione made a weak attempt at sounding brisk, her chin trembling. "You can stay here, with the baby, as long as you like."

"Yeah, mate, we've got that extra room you can kip in." Ron dropped the letter on an empty chair as if it held some communicable disease, and crossed the room to sit on the other side of his friend. "Lord knows you'll need help with him and we're more than willing. Mum and Dad probably have some old baby stuff, they'd be happy t'give it you…"

Harry had dropped his head into his hands again, and Ron trailed off at a warning look from his wife. The trio waited in silence, Ron's expression worried and Hermione's face anguished. Every now and then Harry's shoulders shook silently.

After what seemed like an eternity to Draco, the doorbell rang. All three of them jumped at the musical chime; Harry was on his feet faster than the other two, racing to the door. He pulled it open, revealing a kindly-looking woman wearing a business suit similar to Hermione's outfit. She was holding a small bundle in her arms, and Harry didn't look at her face again once he had noticed it.

"Mr. Potter, let me first express my deepest apologies for your loss." The woman turned out to be the Owen family lawyer, who was delivering the baby in accord with some trivial Muggle law that satisfied some clause in Delaney's will. Harry didn't appear to be listening to a word of the woman's explanation, his eyes on the small, gurgling bundle in her arms. Hermione took over, answering the lawyer's questions smoothly, taking the paperwork and directing Harry where to sign. He followed her instructions woodenly, silently.

"It's all in order, then, so here you are, Mr. Potter." The lawyer carefully transferred the baby into Harry's outstretched arms. "He came with no name, I'm afrai-"

"Dhugal." Harry's voice cracked a little, but it was stronger than before. "His name is Dhugal." He gently parted the blanket to expose the baby's face. Bright green eyes stared down into bright green eyes, the father staring at the son. The image froze, fading out into blackness, and with an almighty heave, Draco found himself lying facedown on his workshop floor.

**End Chapter**

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**

D'AWWW.

I hope that explains a lot and answers most of your questions. As you might have already guessed, yes, I am a sentimental slob and yes, there actually IS a reason for the rather un-fetching name Dhugal. Now, don't go asking me why I killed Delaney off when she made Harry so happy… it had to happen so this story could truly be a H/D fic. And please stop asking me when the 'slash' is going to start- hello, mortal enemies don't just drop everything and start shagging without a really, really good explanation.

**REMINDER:** The chapter one edit is posted- please read it to avoid confusion.

There, a nice, fat, long chapter for all of you, to tide you over until I edit the other chapters. I forgot to thank the site MuggleNet for all spell names and uses- it has a complete list! Whoo!

Thank you for all of your reviews, and for (wow!) the number of alerts and favorites. I am so very chuffed, and so very motivated. (Do _you_ recognize a not-so-subtle hint when you see one?)

Cheers,  
Pen


	6. A Time To Think

**Eyes Of A Child**

**Chapter Six: A Time to Think

* * *

**

It had been a week. A whole week and Draco hadn't spoken to Potter, heard about Potter, or seen Potter. Draco visited the deli every day, and Fanny seemed to be too preoccupied over which dress robes she wanted or the boy from Drumstrang who agreed to be her pen friend to think about Potter. Draco worked steadily through the week, not hearing one snippet about the Boy Who Lived from his customers. Benson didn't mention Potter again, and even old Tom at the Leaky Cauldron was mum about any Potter gossip he had undoubtedly picked up. Draco attributed the latter to his last chat with Tom; he grateful the barman wasn't too senile to remember.

Even with his completely normal week full of everything non-Potter, Draco couldn't stop thinking about him. He didn't need reminders to recall what he had seen in the Pensive with perfect clarity. It was times like these Draco wished he had his own Pensive so that he could store away bothersome thoughts, but instead he had to endure his brain's near-obsessive replays of Potter's memories.

The one memory that was most haunting and the one Draco dwelled over the most was the final one. Never, in all of his years of knowing Potter had he seen the man look so hopeless. Draco had always suspected the bloke to be stupidly brash, full of sickening Gryffindor bravado, blinded by the admiration of the Wizarding World to the dangers he faced. With He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named back into his full power and desperate to kill Potter, Draco kept waiting for the Gryffindor to crumple under the pressure.

Of course, Potter never did break down. In fact, it was a mixture of Potter's confidence and rumors of weakness on the Dark Lord's side that had moved Draco to announce his neutrality just after his sixth year. His parents had been furious with him.

"Draco, are you trying to get yourself killed?" Narcissa Malfoy, even in great distress, had remained the epitome of gentle breeding. Her hands were fisted in her lap, but save for that and the horrified expression on her face, her posture suggested that she was merely having a normal, Sunday evening conversation. Draco hadn't the stomach to look her full in the face, knowing that her motherly concern would only weaken his resolve.

He had actually been caught trying to sneak out of the manor by the new house elf; he hadn't intended to let his parents know true purpose behind why he was leaving. He would have rather let them think him kidnapped or dead than explain he wanted nothing more to do with the war- especially Harry Potter.

Lucius hadn't taken the news with as much reserve as his wife. Jumping to his feet, Lucius had seized Draco's upper arm, gripping and pulling it just enough to make Draco stand on tip-toes. "By siding with no one, you side with them," he had snarled, his angry, cold gray eyes inches from Draco's own. "The Malfoy name _means _something, Draco, and cowardice isn't it! You've stood before the Dark Lord and offered to serve him, and by God you will continue to do so!"

Draco remained silent, knowing there was a hint of fact in his father's words. He _was_ afraid, afraid of what would happen if Potter won the war, afraid of what would happen when the Dark Lord learned of his decision, afraid of what his friends would think of him, and a whole host of other worries. But Draco had made his choice, and he had leaned upon that one act of courage like a crutch.

Narcissa rose after her husband, and placed a calming hand on his shoulder before turning to Draco. "Your father is right. The Dark Lord will not let you go lightly…" She trailed off, but Draco knew what she meant. If he was found, he would be killed for his insubordination and desertion. "Why, Draco? Why _now?_"

Draco had wrenched his arm away from his father's grip. _"Because,_ Mother, the outcome of this war isn't clear anymore. Harry Potter, as stupid and arrogant a-and talentless as he is, has managed to make a fool out of us and the Dark Lord every time he has faced us. Oh, we've made small victories, killing Sirius Black and-" he faltered slightly "and Dumbledore, but to be honest, I'm not sure if that will be enough."

"_Small_ victories?" Lucius snarled. "_Small? _You would call the resurrection of the Dark Lord a _small _victory? Or, what of the death of his greatest enemy's mentor? You forget your place, boy!"

"No!" Draco had thrown back. "You forget _yours, _Father! I-"

Lucius' lip curled in contempt as he interrupted his son. "Or have you decided that you didn't like what you were being told to do? Living at Hogwarts has weakened you, boy, surrounded by mudbloods and Muggle-lovers like Dumbledore. Did they rub off on you? Is that why Severus Snape had to finish off the old, _wandless_ man _you_ were supposed to dispose of?"

Draco reeled back a little from his father, astounded by his father's cruelty and also rendered speechless by the harsh barb of truth in Lucius' words. He recovered a little, searching his mind for something equally painful to say. "_You_ can't even leave this house after what happened in the Ministry! Aunt Bellatrix laughs at us from her position as the Dark Lord's right-hand, and what honor will you have in the new order? If," he hesitated, "if there is a new order at all?"

"Draco, don't talk to your father that way." Narcissa whispered, her lovely face white. "You are still stressed and tired from your mission this year, it is understandable, you do not know what you want-"

His mother's sweet, pleading voice was the balm that Draco needed to ease the hurt of his father's words. He took a deep breath. "Yes, I believe I do. I wash my hands of this war! I will not wait to see us destroyed. To see myself destroyed," he amended, now studying the floor intently. "If the Dark Lord wins or if Harry Potter does… I don't want the life either outcome will bring."

"You prefer to run away, tail between your legs? You never were much for conflict. A weak, cowardly trait I never considered dangerous until now. I see you clearly now, and I see that I have failed as a father." His father's voice had been icy, flat. "You are no son of mine."

The words had been more effective than a dagger to his heart. Draco raised his chin defiantly to meet Lucius' eyes. "No, maybe I'm not, then."

Before he had to witness tears rolling down his mother's face, Draco had turned on the spot, Apparating away from the manor.

It had been Harry's stalwart, unfailing bravery (or idiocy) that had prompted Draco to choose exile. Even through Draco's hatred, Harry had convinced him that there was a possibility the Gryffindor could win. More importantly, perhaps, and even closer to home was the fact that no matter what he did, no matter how he tried, Draco could never win a victory over Harry.

Born into a world of prestige with plenty of money and plenty of powerful names to drop, Draco had first assumed he would be overwhelmingly popular at Hogwarts, respected by the people worth knowing and feared by the rest. However, the very first day on the train, Harry Potter, the skinny, gangly, poor orphan boy had _snubbed_ him. That had _never_ happened before. Draco had had no idea how to react, except personally swear that Harry fucking Potter would be _sorry_ he had ever rejected Draco Malfoy's hand of friendship. But from his first attempt to his last, nothing Draco did had any lasting effect on the damned Golden Boy. The _only_ time Harry had ever reacted hotly to Draco's aggravations was when Draco insulted Harry's parents at a Quidditch game in their fifth year. Even then Harry had worked the resulting Quidditch suspension to his advantage; all of his newly-freed time allowed him to start up his ridiculous Dumbledore's Army. The Gryffindor seemed unassailable to Draco; to see Harry so completely undone was so unlike everything Draco knew.

It wasn't a sight Draco ever thought he'd experience again. Harry was behaving like his normal self, now, even picking fights in abandoned, secluded alleyways with his arch-rival.

_Stop dwelling on it!_ Draco sat back in his chair, pushing away from his workbench littered with bits of broken Two-Way mirrors that, annoyingly enough, were seemingly unresponsive to a simple _Reparo_. He stretched out, lacing his fingers together and working out the tired muscles in his shoulders. He had enough issues of his own to start thinking about Harry's problems. Harry was, after all, a living breathing hero to the Wizarding World and Draco was nothing more than a semi-talented magical repair wizard.

Benson poked his head around the door, interrupting Draco's musings. "Mr. Markeley? A man's here to see you."

"What does he want? I'm skint for time."

"I told him we were full up an' all, but he's insisting you look at this. He appears to have brought us a Vanishing Cabinet that's acting the berk."

Draco stood up, brushing bits of glass shards off of his trousers. "What?"

He hurried out to the front. A tall, dark-haired man stood next to a fairly-sized cabinet. He looked up as Draco approached and hastily stuck out his hand. "Thank God, Mr. Markeley, sir. I was helping my cousin move, and I dropped this, and then it started going all strange when we were trying to use it-"

The lad never paused for breath, so Draco held up a hand to stop the flow of words, interrupting smoothly. "My apologies, sir, but unfortunately it's near impossible to fix a broken Vanishing Cabinet. The charms placed on them at their making are so complex, and without its mate and without the knowledge of the specific workings the original maker used, I doubt I could help much."

The young man paled right down to the neck of his robes. "The last repair place I tried said these things can't be repaired, no one's done it, but I've heard you're the best, and I just had to try-"

Draco shook his head. "What they say is right. It's never been done before. My advice to you: spend your Galleons purchasing a new one instead of trying to fix this one, because it's pointless to try and repair something like this. My apologies."

Benson watched as the young man wrestled the cabinet outside the shop. "It's true? No one has ever been able to fix them before?"

Draco was already halfway back to his workroom. "No."

Benson didn't notice Draco's dismissal of the conversation. "I heard a rumor off of old Tom that a Death Eater managed it once, back during the war-"

Draco barely paused in his stride, and when he spoke, he was pleased to hear it was steady and threatening. "Benson, if you would like to keep working here, I would suggest you refrain from continuing this idiotic conversation."

With that, Draco flounced into the back room, flicking the door shut behind him with his wand. He sat down again and picked up a broken mirror shard, but his concentration was shot.

_No one has done it before. I did. I fixed the damned cabinet…_ He set the shard down to cradle his head in his hands. The darkest year of his schoolboy life had been spent wildly trying to kill Albus Dumbledore, a man who had shown him really nothing but kindness and a willingness to try to understand. The broken Vanishing Cabinet Montague had mentioned to him had been his preliminary plan, but he had never suspected how impossible the repair would be. Sitting for hours inside the Room of Requirement, the workplace He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had told him about especially for the task, Draco had been close to succumbing to despair several times. He was ashamed to think about the amount of tears he had shed over the repair.

_They never expected me to really make it happen,_ Draco turned the bitter thought over in his mind. He had had this conversation with himself many times before, and every instance made him flush with anger. _HE wanted me to fail. My success was a surprise to everyone, and still I got treated like shit. Like I hadn't worked my fucking ass off for them!_

Fixing the Vanishing Cabinet probably saved Draco's life, in some respects. He was pardoned from the death he surely would have received had he failed, and he gained a touch of grudging respect with the Death Eaters. However, Draco valued the experience most for teaching him a skill he never knew he had. Fixing things less complicated than the Vanishing Cabinet became his bread and butter, and Draco was proud of his skill. It was the first thing he had accomplished purely by his own willpower.

This thought in mind, he picked up the shard of glass again, and set about to putting it back together.

* * *

**End Chapter**

I have been _SO _unmotivated to write at all. I apologize for the insane amount of time between this chapter and the last one.

I'm still searching for the best way to take this story. I want to stay as true to cannon as possible (setting aside the fact that both Draco and Harry are straight in the books… or so we assume. They COULD pull a Dumbledore and be announced as gay by JKR. Who knows?)

Any ideas are welcomed and appreciated. You guys are the best.

Cheers,

Pen


	7. With All Your Crooked Heart

Mature content warning- please, if you have issues with yaoi or sexual content, now is the time to seek out new reading material. Thanks.

**Eyes of a Child  
Chapter Seven: With all Your Crooked Heart

* * *

**

_"What the mind will not acknowledge, the dreams shall embrace."_

-_M.H.._

He kept tossing and turning in bed, dimly aware that he was dreaming but unable to wake up. Somewhere in his detached thoughts he was able to feel the sweat seeping uncomfortably into his bed sheet, and feel the brush of Egyptian cotton against his cheek as he shifted again. His reality faded for a moment, and then he was standing in front of Malfoy Manor. Draco didn't want to go inside and face his parents, but just as he turned to walk away he found himself standing at the front door, a confident voice in his mind telling him his parents were long dead, rotting safely in their graves. He turned the handle and shoved the door inside. He looked at his surroundings in calm curiosity, wondering how the Forbidden Forest had gotten inside the entrance hallway to the manor. Unafraid, he stepped into the wood.

It was autumn. He walked through the brilliantly colored woods, shuffling his feet through the thick loam of fallen leaves, all of them as bright as their fellows still clinging to the boughs overhead. He felt cocooned in a golden, peaceful word. The dark brown of the tree bark was a pleasing contrast to the canopy and floor around him. Every now and then the soft fluttering of a falling leaf would interrupt the stillness. The only sounds he could hear were the shifting of leaves against his feet and the barely perceptible sighing of the breeze.

He reveled in the solitude for a moment, a detached part of his mind wondering why the Forbidden Forest looked so idyllic, when it had always seemed menacing to him before. Before he could ponder the fact any longer, he noticed a figure stepping out from between two trees.

"You…" Harry Potter, the seventeen year old version of him, raised his wand with a shaking hand. He was clad in Hogwarts robes, and his face was pale against the black material. Draco watched with the same vague interest as the Gryffindor's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

It was at that point that Draco's own wand arm rose to chest level, seemingly of its own volition. Draco stared at his hand; the skin an unusual deathly pallor that was not his own, and the wand that was clutched in the unnaturally long fingers was not his own. _I am Voldemort._ The thought floated so casually across his mind that it barely registered before Potter threw a spell at him. Then he was battling back, engaging in a duel that lasted for what seemed like hours. With each spell, Harry's face grew a little older, his limbs a little less gangly, his eyes a little more cold until he was the twenty-three year old version of Harry Potter Draco knew. And with each spell, Draco noticed his skin returning to its normal hue, his wand transforming from the Dark Lord's into his own. He knew instinctively that this was no longer Harry dueling Voldemort; this was a private, twelve-year-old hurt that had started all the way back on the Hogwarts Express.

The duel abruptly stopped, and Draco stared across at Potter, the both of them breathing heavily from their exertions. "Bow to me," Draco panted.

Potter shook his head, blazing green eyes stubborn.

"Bow to me." Draco repeated. He felt that it was integral for Potter to obey him, though he had no idea what would happen should Potter agree.

"Never, not to you." Potter hissed.

"Bow to me!" Draco whipped his wand up, and with a crack like an Apparition, Potter's torso bent in half in a painful simulation of a bow. A heady rush of power charged up and down Draco's body, sending an electric tingle through his chest down to his groin with a power so explosive it woke him up abruptly.

The sheets were twisted firmly around his legs, and he was breathing heavily as if he had really dueled Potter. None of this really registered; full of dismay, Draco realized he had an aching erection.

"Fuck it all," Draco breathed. He set about to freeing his legs, cursing softly under his breath. _Dreaming about Potter… and waking up to this?_ He stood and cross the room quickly to the bathroom across the hall. He turned the cold tap on full force, cupping a handful of the water to splash across his face. _Sod everything._

He returned to bed, his movement making his problem all the more conspicuous. Draco straightened his bed covers out, forcing the image of Potter's submission out of his mind. _Perhaps Benson is right, I do work too much. I read about stress-related dreams…_ He scowled at his lap, willing the bulge in the sheet to go away. _McGonagall in lingerie. Merlin in a bikini. A Hufflepuff orgy. _The erection persisted.

Draco hooked his thumbs over his boxers, sliding them down slowly, lying back in his bed. Breathing deeply, rhymically, he closed his eyes and his fist, summoning up the image that he knew had prompted his body's unfortunate reaction. Givingin to temptation had never been an issue for Draco.

Potter, the famous, Boy-Who-Lived Potter, bowing down beneath Draco's wand, a telltale flash of helpless hatred in the familiar green eyes. When that image no longer sufficed, Draco bit his lip in frustration. _How far must my own consciousness go to punish me?_ He stroked himself faster, scenes from the alleyway entering his mind unbidden. The anger that had been written in every line of Harry's face acted like an aphrodisiac for Draco; that same face that had been inches away from Draco's own as Harry had pinned him to the alley wall. _This is sick…_

Harry, finally submitting to him-

Spots of blazing white clouded Draco's vision, the pressure exploding inside of his groin like a thousand electrical shocks. He shuddered, a liquid ecstasy racing along every vein, causing him to arch his spine and throw his head back, mouth open in a wordless cry. Every schoolboy eventually perfected the noiseless orgasm until they figured out Silencing Charms, and Draco was glad of the skill in that moment knowing that the subject of his perversity was separated from him by a thin layer of plaster and wood. Feeling boneless, he flopped back onto his pillows, feeling as empty and disgusting as he ever had. His body was still tingling from his release, and Draco lay perfectly still, half-horrified, half perfectly sated, unconsciously savoring the afterglow.

_What is _wrong_ with me?_

The answer to the question didn't materialize out of thin air, and Draco didn't expect it to. Nor did he expect the answer to lie at the bottom of a measure of scotch, but he threw back a couple glasses of it regardless.

* * *

It was a Sunday, the one day of the week Draco took off of work. Not because he needed the rest, but because it was simply illogical to have the shop open on a day so few people came to Diagon Ally for shopping. Draco always set his alarm clock for a later hour, but his body never allowed him to sleep longer than eight. Today was no different, despite Draco's wish to roll over and never wake up. Switching the clock off as stood up, Draco ran a hand through his hair distractedly. The events of the night were still irritatingly fresh in his mind.

He hadn't ever considered being queer, but after the homoerotic display of last night he wondered if he needed to reexamine his sexuality. He had, at one point, convinced himself he was in love with Pansy Parkinson, and had even been persuaded to tell her he loved her on more than one occasion. For Pansy, "I love you" was a statement that was rather like "Have a good day;" said often and many times without thought or actual conviction. For Draco, the words were another chain on a gilded cage of commitment that he wasn't too keen on entering, and thus should be used sparingly. After word had leaked out that Draco had chosen neutrality, Pansy had melted into the sea of hateful and accusatory faces, and he discovered that the words meant nothing. "I love you" was just another phrase exchanged between crooked neighbors, and could rarely be depended on.

_But really, does that make me gay? One bad relationship and one questionable erection?_

After a quick, cold shower, Draco pulled on Muggle jeans and a dark long-sleeve shirt, figuring he ought to visit the grocery store. He still disliked adhering to the Muggle lifestyle, but he had to admit that some of the conveniences that made up for a lack of magic were helpful in his position, such as cheese and milk and disgustingly cheap wine all being sold within the same building. He moved toward the window and drew open the curtain to let in as much of the sun that could force its way past the ever-dreary clouds over London.

There was a pair of drunks making their slow, stumbling way home in the meager sunlight, and a bag lady pushing a stolen shopping cart along the gutter coming towards them. Draco had begun to turn away from the window when one of the drunks tumbled down onto his stomach, nearly upsetting the shopping cart. The bag lady started to scream curses at the man, who could do no more than allow himself to be dragged upright by his less inebriated friend. Draco caught his breath. The flash of glasses reflecting the pale light, along with the shock of black, messy hair lead him to believe that that was none other than Harry Potter.

His suspicions were confirmed as the pair made their way to the entrance of the apartment building. What was more, Draco recognized Seamus Finnegan, the obnoxious Gryffindor in his year, as the man holding Harry up. Draco snatched his wand from the bedside table and pointed it at himself. "_Aspectus!"_ A brief glance in the mirror showed Dominic Markeley's face safely staring back at him. Satisfied, Draco hurried to the door and down the stairs to the main entrance.

He wasn't quite sure why he was going to meet up with them, especially with the events of last night fresh in his mind. Perhaps it was in spite of last night; seeing the Gryffindor in his drunken state might be the elixir to his late-night issue. All he was aware of was the fact that Harry Potter was knock-down drunk, and no other scenario seemed more satisfying to the Slytherin in Draco.

"Hey there!" Draco called across the apartment lobby as Finnegan navigated Harry through the door with some difficulty. "Need some help?"

"Thanks," Finnegan allowed Draco to sling one of Harry's arms around his neck. "'E had a bit much t'drink las night, got himself mighty ossified. Heh," Finnegan laughed a little, sending a wave of alcohol-flavored breath over Draco's face. "'Three pints of Guinness and a sick bucket for me English friend!' says I, and… heh…"

Through his amusement over Harry's situation, Draco felt a small thrill of panic. "Where's his kid?" _Surely Potter wouldn't be stupid enough to leave a Patronus with a toddler all night?_

"Over at a friends' place… the Longbottom's, now, ain't he, safe and sound." Finnegan laughed again, and Draco curled his lip in distaste as the unsavory aroma of stale drink invaded his nose again. "Harry sure knows when he's goin' to get himself drunk, good 'n' proper. We haven't nipped off to a pub in awhile, 'e's been abroad, heh" Finnegan snickered, "you'd think he was maken' up fer lost time last night!"

"Now why would Mr. Potter go and get drunk?" Draco asked, innocently playing the ignorant Muggle neighbor as he helped maneuver Harry's limp form into the lift. "He seemed a nice fellow to me, when we met."

"Ah, his wife died about… ah, he mentions her now an' again, t'be honest, I never knew the lad married!" Finnegan settled back against the wall of the elevator as it began to rumble upwards, blissfully unaware of all the things he didn't know about Delaney Owen.

"Yes, I was wondering about the mother…" Draco prompted, hoping Finnegan, in his tipsy, loose-lipped state, would let more interesting facts slip, perhaps even more information than what Draco had discovered in the Pensive. But Finnegan didn't appear to have heard him, his head nodding and a goofy smile on his face. As the lift stopped on the third floor, Draco heard him mumbling snatches of 'Sweet Molly Malone' under his breath. _He's done for the day. Shame, really. It would be interesting to hear what sort of rot Potter's been dreaming up to placate his meddlesome Gryffindor friends…_

"I've got him from here," Draco eased off of the wall, supporting Harry's full weight. "Do you need a cab called?"

"Nah," Finnegan gave an exaggerated wave, stumbling a little as he did so. "I can 'pperate. I mean… I got it."

Pretending not to have heard the idiot's response, Draco just pulled Harry out of the lift and toward his apartment. Once the elevator doors had closed, Draco pulled his wand from his pocket and opened the door with a muttered spell.

"D'you know something?" Harry seemed to stir briefly from his stupor as Draco unceremoniously dumped him on the couch. He didn't wait for Draco to answer. "Oliver Cromwell's las' words were 'My design is to make what haste I can to be gone,' and then he _died._"

"That would make sense, if those where his last words." Draco straightened up, looking around the apartment for a moment.

"An'… an' lessee, Eugene O'Neill, know his? 'Born in a hotel room--and God damn it--died in a hotel room.'" Harry sighed, gesturing a little with his right hand. He nearly knocked the lamp off of the end table. "I wonder what she said?"

Draco was taken off-guard. He looked at Harry with a slight frown. "What?"

"I wonder what she said." Harry repeated, looking vaguely past Draco's left shoulder. "Before she died."

A feeling rose up in Draco's throat, and it was so strange and alien that for a moment he couldn't identify what exactly it was. _Pity. I actually pity the poor bastard._ He shook himself internally, staying only long enough to see Potter slump back in the couch cushions, fast asleep, before returning to his own apartment.

**End Chapter

* * *

**Not too bad for update time, eh? I'm working on getting better! 

The chapter title was derived from a poem by W. H. Auden called _As I Walked Out One Evening,_ and the full quote is "O stand, stand at the window/As the tears scald and start;/ You shall love your crooked neighbor/With your crooked heart."

Let me know what you think!  
Cheers,  
Pen


	8. A Good Year

Hello again.

So… yes. Sorry about the wait. I was looking for one of those elusive plots, and guess what? I found one.

**Eyes of a Child  
Chapter Eight: A Good Year**

* * *

The last bits of snow were clinging to the corners of window sills and hiding in the cold dark spaces between buildings. Winter was fading fast, but spring seemed to creep into its place at an almost imperceptible pace. The birds were venturing out into the still-crisp air, though they sang tentatively, ready to retreat at the first sign of a snowfall. London was as dreary as ever during that time of year, except on the few days that the sun shone through the clouds, as it had today. The patrons of Diagon Ally had taken advantage of the rare weather, coming out in droves to take care of their spring shopping. Now, as the day came to a close, the setting sun sent long, orange-gold shafts of light through the windows of Markeley's Magical Maintenance, the half-drawn shades failing to block the harsh spring light. Draco sat in his workroom, blissfully alone. Benson had delivered the last of the Time Turners to the Ministry on his way home, and most of the other repaired items had been picked up, leaving Draco's workroom unusually empty. The lack of clutter was calming, and Draco had no desire to hasten home to the apartment that seemed plagued by the presence of Harry Potter.

Draco learned back in his chair, hooking one hand behind his head as he turned a page in his current novel. He started to read, only to find that he had no idea what he had read on the previous page, as his mind had been wandering to Potter. Draco threw the book down onto his workbench vehemently, biting his lip in frustration.

_He isn't my problem! Stop dwelling, Draco._ It had been a month since Potter had stumbled home drunk with Seamus Finnegan, but that instance hadn't been the last, not by a long shot. At least twice a week, Potter had found a way to get Dhugal out of the apartment so he could go to the pub. He had a variety of friends he went drinking with, so, Draco guessed, none of them would know how often he went out. Night after night Draco watched him stumbling home, barely able to stay upright, and the memory of Harry's helpless, hopeless, deadened eyes resurfaced. Draco knew why Harry felt it necessary to drown himself with alcohol on a regular basis; knowing him and his tendency to play savior, Draco guessed that Harry blamed himself, and had to drown out the awful 'what-ifs' that he had no doubt agonized over. That part of Harry was blatantly obvious – he never had been a particularly complex person – but Draco found himself dwelling almost constantly on the man who had pathetically wondered what had last been said by the woman he could no longer hold. Had this Harry been there all along, the Harry that could be wounded, the Harry Draco never could quite harm?

It had been easier to think him simple-minded, impervious to all hurts, not just to Draco's efforts. It was disconcerting now to think that something else could so unsettle Harry, and despite the fact that he hadn't said more than three words to Draco since then, Potter's behavior acted like an unreachable itch.

The workroom was no longer a sanctuary, as thoughts of Potter had pervaded the once-peaceful stillness. Draco stood and changed his face almost unconsciously into Dominic Markeley's, tucking his book into the pocket of his robes as he checked his appearance in the small oval mirror on the wall. He crossed the room to the door, Summoning his heavier cloak has he went. The street was nearly empty, save for some late shoppers and other owners leaving their stores, and Draco made good time back to the Leaky Cauldron.

"Evenin', Dom!" Tom turned a gap-filled grin towards him as Draco approached the bar. "Yer a liddle later than usual, gettin' home. Long day?"

"Excruciatingly so." Draco made as if to continue towards the door that lead to Muggle London, but Tom waved him over back to the bar. "Yes?"

"I hear there's a nice liddle place a couple blocks down west from here. A Muggle pub called Molly Quinn's. Normally I wouldn't send y'elsewhere for a cuppa, but y'look like y'could use a liddle alone time." Tom gestured around at the packed room, speaking barely loud enough to be heard over the rowdy guffaws of the nearest table. "If y'don't mind my sayin' so. Anyway, it's a Friday night and y'look like y'could use somethin' stiff."

Draco bit back a scathing remark, something that had become second nature since he had created his new identity. _How would a half-wit old codger know anything worthwhile about me?_ Instead, he gave a thin smile and nodded, opting for silence as Tom waved him out the door, a knowing smile on his old, weathered face. However, once he had started toward his apartment, the idea of a drink in an unfamiliar pub began to sound like wisdom. _Anything to keep me away from _him Draco thought sourly. _At least no one will bother me there._ He ducked into an ally for a moment, and transfigured his robes into a Muggle jacket and jeans before heading down the street in the direction Tom had indicated.

Molly Quinn's was fashioned after an old Irish pub, complete with a handsome wooden bar and tall bar stools. The décor consisted mostly of signed sports paraphernalia from Irish football clubs and glowing neon advertisements for beer. A large Muggle television showing a sports match in one corner of the room drew most the attention of most of the pub's patrons, and only the pretty young bartender looked up at Draco's entrance. "What'll you have, sir?"

"Macallan whiskey, if you've got it and the older the better." Draco sat down heavily on the bar stool, loosening the top button on his newly Transfigured shirt. The woman gave him an appraising look, probably guessing him to be wealthy as well as handsome by the drink he had ordered. She placed a glass in front of him and poured out a measure of the amber-colored liquid from an expensive-looking bottle. "Year 1960, sir. It's been compared favorably to the 1946 Macallan, which is-"

"Arguably the best single-malt whiskey in the world. I'm impressed." Draco interrupted her with a smile. The bartender flushed a little, and flashed a slightly seductive smile in return.

"Thank you, sir. It's not often I have customers who know about the finer brews. Most of them are much more interested in whether Galway United will beat Wexford Youths for the cup, and would rather just pump as much alcohol into their systems as they can while watching a match." She gave a little, lilting laugh.

On closer inspection, Draco noted, the bartender wasn't just pretty. Shapely and voluptuous, she wore her chestnut-colored hair in a most flattering fashion, pulled back gently to accentuate a delicate bone structure and wide blue eyes. Her blouse was cut just to give a hint of her beautifully-shaped breasts, and the black apron tied around her waist emphasized her hourglass-shaped figure.

"What I can't understand," Draco raised his glass up in a toast, eying her as he did, "is why they bother to watch the television when something so captivating is at the other end of the room." He took a sip as she colored again, swilling the sweet and smooth liquid over his tongue to reach all corners of his palate. After swallowing, he ran his tongue over his lips, aware that she was watching the motion keenly. "I'm Dominic."

"Linley. Pleasure." Linley extended her hand to grasp Draco's, her hand lingering a little longer than what was strictly necessary. Draco felt the twinge of an old annoyance; the Muggle woman had no right to be so bold, beautiful or no. He shook the feeling away, taking another sip of his whiskey, using the intensity of his eyes to make her blush again. It wasn't like the old days – the Malfoy arrogance and elitist snobbery weren't his cross to bear anymore. No one cared who he did or didn't fuck anymore; there wasn't a pureblood monopoly on his life. The thought was both a relief and an ache.

"I haven't seen you around here before." Linley leaned on the bar, and Draco took her silent offer and admired the view. "You new in town?"

"Relatively. I just decided to try out a new place tonight."  


"And how do you like it?"

_She's not one to be subtle, is she?_ Draco smirked over the top of his glass. _Good. That makes it easier. _"I'm still deciding." He placed his glass down on a coaster, leaning toward her. "Let me buy you a drink. It's not fair I'm enjoying a Macallan and you aren't."

"I'm not sure my manager would look too kindly upon that, but I appreciate the offer." Linley hesitated, looking at him with poorly concealed attraction. "But I'm off in two hours. Buy me a drink then?"

"I'll count the seconds." Draco gave her a feral smile, and she pushed off the bar to attend to a group of three men who had just entered. He let his eyes slide down appreciatively to Linley's well-shaped backside as she sauntered away. _There now. I can't be a shirtlifter—that _one_ instance must have just been caused by a stress dream. Nothing sketchy about it._

A quarter of an hour later, Draco was nearly finished with his first glass. He signaled for Linley, and when she arrived, he beckoned her to lean closer over the bar. "You _came_ so quickly. I'm impressed with the service," he whispered sensuously into her ear, his voice dripping with innuendo. "My opinion of this place is improving."

Linley smiled, tilting her head so that her lips brushed the shell of Draco's ear, sending a thrill down his spine. "I'm glad I could be of assistance. If there's anything else I could do for you… I'm at your command."

"Good to know, I'll keep that in mind for later."

The bell over the door tinkled again, and Linley pulled back to glance at the man walking in. When she caught sight of him, she gave a worried sigh. "Harry, what are you doing back here so soon?"

Draco's head whipped around, and he gave a little start as he recognized the man approaching the bar to be none other than Harry Potter. _Fuck!_

"Now that isn't the way to be treating a regular." Potter grinned at her, shrugging out of his coat. "My friends cancelled on me, and I need something to drink, and you're so obliging I thought I'd come back."

Linley gave him a disapproving look. "I'm not so sure you'll find me so obliging this time, Harry. You've been out of control these past few weeks."

"I appreciate the concern, but don't you think that's my business?" Potter turned back toward the bar after tossing his coat on a communal rack by the door, and caught sight of Draco. "M- Dominic?"

"Potter." Draco cursed inside of his head again as the other man took the bar stool next to him. As he sat, Draco caught a whiff of stale drink; Potter had already been at it for awhile, then. _That explains the friendliness. Sodding joy of joys._

"Linley, be a dear and get me something strong." Potter slapped a ten dollar note on the bar, and the bartender begrudgingly pulled out another glass. After filling it to the brim, she hurried away leaving the bottle behind at Potter's direction, as if the action made her feel guilty. Potter must really come here often, Draco mused, watching the other man throw back the whiskey in two large gulps, wincing as the taste hit his tongue.

"It's been awhile, hasn't it, Dominic?" Potter muttered, drawing a slightly shaky hand across his mouth. He looked awful already; his hair, though usually disheveled, looked more like a mass of tangled black wire than hair, and a dark gray shadow of stubble covered his chin. His clothing was rumpled, and his glasses were perched crookedly on his nose. On closer inspection, Draco noticed that in the absence of Dhugal, Potter's eyes harkened back to the memory Draco had seen in the Pensive: slightly bloodshot, dazed, and hopeless. The dark circles beneath them emphasized their bright green color, but also the unusual paleness of his skin.

_If Potter's like this every night, how do his friends miss the sort of shape he's in?_ Draco marveled inwardly, popping one of his ice cubes into his mouth, fueled by an urge for something to do rather than an actual desire. _He looks as if he's been shooting off Patronuses at thousands of dementors all night._

"How's Dhugal?" Draco broke the silence, hoping to dislodge the deadened look from Potter's eyes.

"He's good. I've enrolled him in Muggle kindergarten, at the same school Neville and Ginny's little boy goes to. They get along famously, playing wizards with some of their Muggle mates. Their teacher thinks they're brilliant, with imaginations like theirs." Potter recited it like a pre-rehearsed speech, not meeting Draco's eye. "Ginny's got him tonight; she says little Frank loves it when Dhugal's there for play dates." He stopped, still staring at his empty cup for a moment before refilling it and knocking the whiskey back.

"You're actually that pathetic, aren't you?" Draco said conversationally. "No one to fight anymore, no worlds to save, and you fall to pieces."

Potter's head snapped up, his jaw clenched. "Listen, Dominic, I didn't ask for that to happen. I didn't ask to be anyone's savior."

"Yes, it just happened, I am aware of that fact." Draco lightly ran a finger along the rim of his glass. "That's not what makes you pathetic."

"Oh, and I suppose I ought to take your word on what's pathetic, then? I suppose you'd know; you're the coward who ran away and changed your name and face." Potter stood up from the bar angrily, grabbing the bottle by the neck. He was more inebriated than Draco had initially guessed, and he stumbled a little on his way to one of the booths along the wall. Draco followed him, sliding in across from him.

"Yes, I 'ran away,' but I'm not the slobbering drunk who can barely make it from bar to table. I'm the son of a disgraced and hated family. You're the savior of the known world, whether you like it or not." Draco settled back in the booth, noticing how angry Potter was becoming, and savoring every moment of it. "I have every reason to be here to drink my problems away, and you? Not a single bloody reason."

I_ had forgotten how much fun it is to bait this man,_ Draco thought smugly, watching Potter's eyes burn with anger. _And how good I am at it._

Potter leaned forward, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the whiskey bottle's neck. "You know nothing about me."

"Really? Because I think I hit a sore spot. Poor Harry Potter can't deal with the fact that the world doesn't need him anymore." Draco smirked. "You miss all of the love, right? I suggest a good lay. Maybe then you can convince yourself that you still matter to someone, even if it's just for a one night stand."

At the word love, Potter looked down at the table silently. After a few moments of silence, he looked up. A whole new emotion blazed in his eyes, something Draco couldn't quite place. When he spoke, his entire face was taut as if each word caused him immeasurable pain. "You know nothing of love."  


"Oh?" Draco faltered for a moment; he suddenly remembered the look on Potter's face as he gazed at Delaney Owen in the Pensive. "Do tell."

"You probably can't appreciate real love, Draco." Draco flinched a little at Potter's use of his given name, but didn't dare interrupt, so intense was Potter's face. "You can't imagine what it's like to give yourself so fully to another human being that it feels wrong to be anywhere without them. You can't even guess at how loving someone more than yourself would feel."

As he spoke, Potter's face relaxed and his eyes became unfocused. He spoke as if he were talking to someone through a veil, and with a start, Draco realized he was.

"You can't imagine how hard it is to go on without the one person you love… how much it burns to know you can't see them ever again… Or how it feels," Potter lifted an arm, and cupped Draco's cheek with his palm, his thumb caressing the skin, "to have your lover touch you, make your heart stop and feel like it'll burst…"

Draco went stiff at Potter's touch. _He's drunk…he's out of his right mind!_ He wanted to move, but something compelled him to stay absolutely still and drink in the feeling of Potter's calloused hand against his skin. Thank God we moved to a booth. I don't know how I'd explain this…

"Love… don't talk to me about love." Potter dropped his hand suddenly, as if he had just realized what he was doing. Without another word he got up and left, snatching his coat on his way out. Draco sat still in the booth, hardly daring to contemplate this latest turn of events, lest his hormones respond more than it already had from the brief contact. It wasn't until later, when Linley had him pressed against the mattress in the bedroom of her flat, stripping him of his shirt and kissing her way down his chest, did he let his body react in the way it had been aching to all evening. And then he could blame it on Linley's talented mouth, and not on the flare of heat he had felt at Potter's rough-skinned touch.

**End Chapter**

Pen here.

Hope you liked the chapter! This will probably be the 'sexiest' this story will get for at least two more installments, because I hope that this story will be a _story_, and not just an excuse for hot H/D business. And now that the plot's been reworked, I feel I might be heading in the right direction to achieve that goal.

Ugh.

But if anyone has suggestions, places they'd like to see the story go, I'm always happy to receive such commentary.

Cheers, and Happy Easter,  
Pen


	9. Better Off

**Eyes of a Child**

**Chapter Nine: Better Off **

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"—And God damn it, Malfoy, you really want to believe that I'd let that happen?" Potter glared at him through hateful green eyes, his usually chalk-white skin flushed with anger. Draco stared back evenly, still sitting tense on his recliner, his book open on one knee. "That I'd let my last connection to her be harmed in any way?"

"So that's all the boy is to you? A connection to a woman long dead?" Draco pursed his lips, watching the other man seethe over his barb. "Really, Potter, I thought more of you."

"_Damn_ you!" Potter exploded. He started pacing again, running his hands agitatedly through his already tangled hair.

"Hit a sore spot?" Draco said softly, the malice he had hoped to interject into his tone missing. Here was his perfect opportunity; his rival all but undone, his eyes over-bright with furious tears… but pity was stabbing at Draco's gut like knives. He carefully marked his place in the novel on his knee, and set it aside as he rose. "Face it, Potter."

The other man turned to him and crumpled to his knees without warning, heaving dry sobs with his head in his hands. He was as broken as Draco had ever seen him, a haunting image that harkened back to what Draco had seen in the Pensive.

_How this has happened, here, now… I have no clue._ Draco remained motionless, standing over Harry Potter as he choked out his pain between his fingers. Only twenty minutes earlier Potter had knocked loudly on his apartment door.

"Dominic, it's Harry. I'd like to talk to you." He had pounded on the door again, hesitating before speaking. "Dominic…?"

Draco had laid his book down carefully on his knee, pausing only to flick his wand at the door, unlocking it with a wordless spell. "It's open."

Potter had walked in as if treading on eggshells. He looked rough, sober. _A new look for you, Potter,_ Draco had thought. He narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"A-About last night," Potter began, his words clipped. He glanced around at the pristine apartment, shifting his weight uneasily. Draco considered him closely.

"Last night?" _The drinking or the caress?_

"If you could keep quiet about it. I-I usually don't do that." Potter waited, as if he expected Draco to speak. When he didn't, Potter had stumbled on awkwardly. "I was having a rough night. I-I don't usually get so pissed."

_Ah. The drinking. Good._ "Really. I'm going to call that bluff. I believe you're an alcoholic of sorts, Potter." Draco sat back in his chair, teepeeing his fingers and resting his pursed lips against the tips. "You Gryffindors were never ace at lying, and more's the pity."

"You wouldn't understand." Potter's jaw was rigid, his eyes cold and distant.

"You're not denying you're an alcoholic, then." Draco raised a slim eyebrow. "But as for my understanding, I'm sure I'd do admirably if you took a moment and explained yourself. Don't dare to assume your issues are above the comprehension of _plebeians_ like myself."

"I don't have to explain myself to you."

"True, but one day you'll need to explain yourself to your friends, and quite certainly your little brat. The practice may be helpful."

That had gotten Potter's attention. He glared at Draco. "Keep Dhugal out of this. I've been having a few bad nights; it's none of your concern."

"You're right, it's not my concern how you piss your life away. I'm merely commenting on what a shame it is for poor Dhugal to first loose a mother and now to be ignored by his only remaining parent." Draco found himself saying not what he thought would be most hurtful, as he normally would have done, but instead what he was actually concerned about. He shook the empathetic feeling away, coming up instead with the most poisonous he could think to say. "The boy's as good as an orphan now. But I suppose you know what that's like…"

Potter had been shaking with the effort of standing still. Draco continued, the other man's anger fueling his words. "What a cycle we seem to have fallen into, Potter. You asking me for favors you have no right to request… You're pathetic."

"Fine, Malfoy." Potter had taken a deep, ragged breath, visibly straining to control himself. "You're right. Is that what you want to hear? I'm a bloody mess, my wi—Dhugal's mum is dead, and I can't handle it. Is that what you're trying to say? Because, congratulations, Malfoy, you're spot on. Ten points to Slytherin." The venom in his voice was unlike anything Draco had ever heard.

"Your wife. Tell me about her." _Yes, do, Potter. Tell me about Delaney Owen._

"I- We never married. She was-she was Irish. Her name was Della- Delaney, I mean. She wa-wasn't a witch. Her parents didn't approve of the match-" Potter's voice was bitter- "so I left, telling her to come to London if she s-still wanted me… I didn't know about any baby until- until I was contacted about the accident where she d-died." Potter swayed on the spot where he stood, his eyes fixed on his own feet. "I miss her." The last bit was said in a whisper that was so choked and forced Draco barely caught it.

"So she died. People _die_, Potter, and life goes on. I'd think _you_ of all people would know that, accept it. Delaney _died._ Dhugal didn't. Take responsibility for your own damned child, Potter, though you obviously don't deserve him." Draco hadn't been trying to patina his concern with maliciousness. The truth at that point would hurt more than anything else Draco could say.

"I _am_ taking responsibility," Potter hissed. "He's always safe, he's happy as I can make him-"

"That's a load of shite. Say whatever you need to soothe your mangled conscience, Potter, but don't try to sell it to me. I'm not blind, I see you coming home in the morning, so incredibly pissed you can't even find your own bloody door—"

"God, Malfoy, can't you even—"

"No, Potter, someone needs to say this to you," Draco snapped. _I wish someone had said this to my father. Be grateful and listen, you git._ "Before you do irrevocable damage to your kid—"

"For the last time, leave Dhugal out of this. And God damn it, Malfoy, you really want to believe that I'd let that happen?"

_And now here we are._ Draco surveyed the crumpled man imperiously, biting the inside of his cheek.

"I'm lost, Malfoy, I can't stand it." Harry muttered, sounding as if it was an effort to push the words past his constricted throat. "I'm loosing everything else, I don't know how to stop it…"

"How long has this been going on?"

Draco didn't have to elaborate on what he meant. Harry looked up, eyes desperate, huge in the drawn face. "Since-since I found out. I tried other ways to keep myself occupied, raising him, spending every moment with him, but she crept into the corners of my mind I couldn't always occupy… I couldn't distract myself enough. I couldn't dull it any other way…"

"Wrong again." Draco tasted blood from where his teeth had cut into the inside of his cheek. He took an awkward step towards the other man. "There's always a third option." _This is know, Potter. I know this all too well._

"If there is, I don't see it."

"Well, you're not looking bloody hard enough!" Draco glared down at him. "You need to let her go, and there's nothing magical about the bottom of a shot glass that will empower you to do so. I know that, and if this has been going on for as long as you say, you know it too."

"I didn't expect an easy, magical solution. I'm not stupid."

"Really. Prove it, because you're doing a right shoddy job of it now. Do I have to spell it out for you? I know Gryffindors aren't famed for their brains, but really, I didn't think you made it out of everything alive on luck alone."

To his surprise, Harry chuckled humorlessly. "You'd be surprised."

"Probably not." Draco sniffed once. "Learn to _survive,_ Potter, and make some sacrifices if necessary. This- this half-life you're settling with isn't _surviving_. My God, have you no idea of self-preservation?"

"Are we still talking about me, _Dominic?_" Harry's eyes found Draco's.

Draco opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He turned away, compulsively straightening the shade on the table lamp. He had long since recognized his own hypocrisy, and had decided not to care. He was as happy as he ever had been, until, of course, Harry had moved in and brought back all of the old pains.

"So what if we aren't talking about you? I did what I had to do. Where would I be if I stayed with my parents, with _him?_ Dead like my mother, imprisoned like my father? There was no way."

"What if you had come to our side?"

"Because you would have opened your arms to me? Don't pretend to be so naïve, I know you aren't. After I had opened Hogwarts to Death Eaters and helped kill _his_ biggest rival? At least I hope you aren't so naïve."

"It would have been hard, but Draco, we could have saved you."

"I didn't need salvation. If anyone here needs salvation, it's you." Draco took a deep breath, turning back to Harry. "I figured out how to stay alive, and took what little advantage it could give me. Living anonymously, safe from everyone who would do me harm? I would call that success."

"I'd call it hiding."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Then it's a good thing I care little about your opinion. Shall we stop avoiding the original topic, or would you like to stall a little longer to spare your feelings?"

Harry got to his feet, scrubbing at his face with one sleeve. "You've made your point."

"Have I?" Draco countered. "Or have you already made plans for Dhugal to be taken care of tonight?"

Harry flushed, which Draco took to mean he had guessed correctly. "Yes, you've made your bloody point."

"Good. Take my advice now, then, because you'd better believe I'm not going to help you more than once. Take down the picture of her. Get rid of the things that she got for you, things you collected together. Stop lying to yourself. She's not coming back."

Harry nodded mutely, and put a hand on Draco's shoulder. Draco flinched minutely, the memory of Harry's calloused hand against his cheek flashing before his eyes, but Harry didn't seem to notice.

"...Thanks, Draco."

"You're… welcome, Harry."

It wasn't until later that evening, when he was getting in to bed that Draco realized he and Harry were on first-name terms.

**End Chapter**

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It may have been a short chapter, but it was effective. Hooray vehicles for plot transitions!

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